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THE STRANGLE-HOLD 


Novelized By 
E. Manchester Boddv 

tr 


From the Book of the Same Title 

By 

A 

H: C. Cutting 


According to Original Ideas Furnished By 
Eugene H. Kaufmann 

The Times-Mirror Press 


Copyrighted, 1924, by 
E. H. Kaufmann 




MAY 26 1924 

'■ ■ V 


©C1A793413 

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PROLOGUE 


On a certain night late in the month of June, 
1918, a line of weary dough-boys swung off the 
old Nieuvallier-Baccarat road, and disappeared 
into a maze of loosely connected holes and ditches 
that formed the front line trenches of the Lor¬ 
raine Sector. Matted bunches of nettles and 
thorny brambles, that seemed to thrive on the 
sour earth and poisonous air, whipped the 
mens’ faces and held tenaciously to loose equip¬ 
ment that dangled from belts and packs as the 
line stumbled and groped its way in the dark¬ 
ness. The monotonous roar of big guns far in 
the rear had long since given way to the deaf¬ 
ening crash of the shells they threw, bursting 
with venomous flashes across the patch of lurid 
emptiness that was no Man’s Land. Stagnant 
water in shell holes and trenches filled the air 
with the stench of death and desolation. Pungent 
fumes of mustard gas, released by heavy shoes 
sucking up soft ooze from the bottom of the 
trenches, irritated the eyes and burned the al¬ 
ready parched throats. 

The business of the night was to relieve the 
6 g th; beyond this no one wanted anything more 
in the world than a hole where he could throw 
his pack and stretch his body. Sergeant Milton 
Esmond, chosen for one reason, because he 
could pronounce the names of the men in his 




















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platoon, assisted the officers in effecting the relief, 
to the accompaniment of the usual confusion 
to which they had become accustomed from their 
weary months of training with the French and 
British. 

There were of course other reasons why Mil- 
ton Esmond was a sergeant, depended upon by 
his officers and loved by his men. Perhaps one 
reason for his popularity was because he never 
allowed the uniform to deceive him. He had been 
with Company O, 307th Infantry, when the boys 
“joined up.” He saw them as they were, 
Jewish, Italian, Slavonic, Irish, Americans all, 
some rich, some poor. For months he had helped 
to discipline the ‘gas-house gang’, the ex-civilians 
who had grown up from boyhood convinced that 
they were hard-boiled and tough, but who had 
been observed to soften miraculously as the 
troopship left Hoboken. For months too he had 
comforted and helped the ‘hot-house’ plants, the 
boys who came to the barracks laden with all 
the comforts of home, with lumps in their 
throats, tears in their eyes, and oftener than not 
a blush of confusion on their cheeks. He had 
seen these boys toughen and grow up over night 
as the somber coast of France brought them face 
to face with the grim business ahead. 

No one knew’ much about Esmond. Rumor 
had it that he had been alone in the States. His 
ancestors, it was understood, had come originally 



from somewhere near the Polish frontier. Those 
who went to the bother of being curious about it 
learned that he had no one even to whom he 
could award the allotment of pay required by 
the Government. Yet Esmond, for all his foreign 
lineage, was thoroughly American, one of the 
few that are still found helping to keep alive the 
illusion that America really is a melting pot. In 
civilian life he had been identified with the import 
and export business and like so many of his type 
had taken a healthy interest in the country of his 
adoption. He had no use for criticism unless it 
was constructive. He had worked hard in the 
so-called slums of New York’s Eastside, and had 
done much to encourage a better understanding 
between the Americans by choice whom he 
met there, and the Americans by birth for whom 
the former worked. 

As Platoon Sergeant, Esmond played no favor¬ 
ites, although everyone regarded Private Mike 
Mulvaney as his inseparable companion. Mike 
joined Company O after the Division arrived in 
France. No one seemed to know just when the 
friendship between him and Esmond started, but 
an incident that occurred on the Somme while the 
Company was still with the British was always re¬ 
garded as marking the beginning of the very close 
relationship between them. On this occasion a 
rumor had been circulated through the American 
camp that a successful raid of the night before 





































































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had resulted in the capture by the British of 
several thousand German prisoners. A little 
investigation revealed the fact that these prisoners 
had been herded into a huge wire corral just over 
a hill from Company O. Esmond, Mike Mul- 
vaney, and several others who were off duty at 
the time went over to witness what they had 
never seen—a large contingent of German pris¬ 
oners. 

Arriving at the enclosure, and acting on the 
impulse of the moment, the Yanks commenced 
trading anything of value they had in their 
pockets for anything that looked like a souvenir 
the Germans had to offer, the trades being con¬ 
summated through the meshes of the wire 
barrier. A number of mud-spattered, leathery¬ 
faced Tommies who had been looling about, ob¬ 
served the procedure for a few moments. One 
referred to as Corporal Smythe by his com¬ 
panions, came up to Esmond and said: “You 
bloomin’ Yanks don’t know how to treat 
these Boches. Never give ’em anything. You 
can take what you like. If you must be trading, 
I’ll show you how to do it.” 

With this he withdrew to a small Y. M. C. A. 
hut where he secured an empty box that had 
once contained chocolate. Filling the box with 
dirt, he purchased enough chocolate to barely 
cover the top, then holding this tempting package 
in his hand he approached the prisoners’ cage 


( 



and called out for offers. Waving aside every¬ 
thing the prisoners presented, he held his place 
until finally approached by a huge non-com¬ 
missioned officer from the inner crowd. This man 
appraised the chocolates for a minute and then 
produced a large silver watch, apparently an old 
family heirloom from the markings it bore on 
the polished silver case. Smythe immediately 
nodded approval and offered his box. Seizing 
the chocolates the German quickly withdrew into 
the crowd. Both Americans and Tommies 
watched him with amusement as he opened the 
lid and lifted one of the pieces of candy. With 
utter disgust the German threw the box to the 
ground and stamped off among his fellows amid 
the loud laughs and guffaws of the observers out¬ 
side the wire. 

With a triumphant sneer Smythe turned to 
Sergeant Esmond: “You bloody Yankees will be 
learnin’ something before this war is over. By 
the time you’ve been in it as long as we have, 
you’ll never let the Boches get away with any¬ 
thing.’’ 

Proceedings had been regular up to this point, 
but one thing the Yanks did not want to hear was 
a reference to the fact that they had but recently 
joined in the fight. However, nothing was said 
until Corporal Smythe in order to drive home 
his point, exhibited his trophy. He pressed the 
stem and the case flew open. Then the thing 








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happened. There were no works in the watch! 
Esmond could control his feelings no longer, and 
let out a typical Yank Tazberry’! Immediately 
there was a flare of temper, and what began as 
an incident grew until it reached the proportions 
of a near-riot. 

The Yanks were sadly outnumbered, but the 
thing started so suddenly that for the first few 
minutes the fight was fairly even. Esmond, as the 
leader, bore the brunt of the attack, and before 
the military police or any officers from the nearby 
British camp could interfere, he and his followers 
found themselves in a bad way. It was then 
that Private Mulvaney came into his own. With 
his big Irish eyes dilated with the lust of battle 
and his red hair fairly bristling over his freckled 
face, he plunged into the fight with fists and feet 
flying in all directions. When the melee was 
finally stopped Mike had, by actual count, elimi¬ 
nated no less than half-a-dozen of the Tommies, 
and had just finished with Corporal Smythe. He 
had saved Esmond from a severe trouncing, and 
had fought side by side with him throughout. 

This incident cemented the friendship between 
the two, which, in course of time, came to be 
regarded by both officers and men as a thing 
apart from the squalid and ugly influences 
with which they were surrounded. Although 
Mike had thus won a place in the hearts 
of the men of the platoon, he continued 





nevertheless to be the butt of many a joke in 
the coarse camp comedy. He had never been to 
school, it appeared, and when someone happened 
to ask him on one occasion what he was fighting 
for, he replied solemnly that he was fighting for 
the United States. Pressed for further informa¬ 
tion he finally admitted that the United States, 
as far as he was concerned, consisted only of a 
forth-acre farm at the head of Alder Valley in 
Oklahoma. The laughter and fun occasioned 
by his innocent and whole-hearted explanation 
hurt him deeply. Prior to this he had always 
borne the camp jokes in the spirit in which they 
were made, but this time he did not respond to 
the merriment his reference to Alder Valley had 
created. Instead he left the group and made for 
his dugout. 

Esmond, who had witnessed the incident with¬ 
out taking part in it, felt that something was 
wrong and hastened to join Mike. He found 
him in tears, curled up beside a flickering candle, 
laboriously deciphering what Esmond recognized 
to be a letter from his mother. Esmond pulled 
his blanket up beside Michael and for a few 
moments said nothing, but presently, as Mike 
folded up the letter, he remarked: “Don’t take 
what the boys say too much to heart, Mike. 
They’re a good lot, and they wouldn’t hurt you 
for anything/’ 

“Sure an’ I wish there was something else 





























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they would be talking about then. It’s never 
a one of them that knows what me poor old 
mother is after doing in Alder Valley.” 

The quaver in his voice affected Esmond 
strangely. “You have never told me about that, 
Mike. Is there anything I can do?” 

“Sure an’ you’ve got your own home to be 
thinking of, or someone back there that you’re in¬ 
terested in?” 

From the uncertainty in his voice Esmond 
understood it was a question rather than a state¬ 
ment that Mike had just given voice to. For a 
moment he recalled his own carefree existence 
before the war, and the knowledge that there 
was no one back home he need worry about came 
again to his mind. Tenderly he placed his hana 
on Mike’s shoulder. “No, Mike, I have no one,” 
he said. “But yet I can understand how you 
feel. Can’t you tell me something about your 
home? Maybe some day we’ll be back there 
together. I have never been out West, you 
know.” 

Mike’s eyes lit up with true affection. “Maybe 
if I was after telling you about it, that is if 
you was, after knowing how things is—sometimes 
when we go out of this dugout I’d be feelin’ a lot 
better if I knew the likes of you was understand¬ 
ing things . . .” and poor Mike stumbled along 
trying his best to unbosom himself to Esmond of 
the things that had been preying on his heart 



for weeks past. Esmond had observed his 
frame of mind and had wondered just what it 
was all about. He was more than anxious now 
to do what he could to relieve his ‘Buddy’s’ 
feelings if at all possible. 

“I know what you mean, Mike, and you can 
tell me all about it. That’s what the fellows 
do here you know. You tell me all about your 
folks and I’ll tell you all about mine, then if 
one of us should go West or get a bad ‘blighty’, 
the other one can sort of carry on with the folks 
at home, see? Only I haven’t any story to tell 
you. That makes it all the better for you.” 

“Well,” Mike began, “it isn’t the like of me 
that should have been coming t;o this war. 
Father’s that crippled he can’t be doing much 
about the place, and my poor old mother, God 
bless her, has never had much of a head for run¬ 
ning things. But sure I couldn’t stand it. What 
with the bands playing, the drums thumping, and 
the flags flying, and all that, it wasn’t Mike 
Mulvaney that was going to be the only coward 
in Alder Valley. Sure an’ the banker, too, David 
Church was his name, was after me to join up, 
an’ me after telling him how I couldn’t leave 
me mother and the old farm. ‘But,’ says he, ‘isn’t 
it meself that’ll be taking care of them till you 
come back?’ ‘Twas Banker Church himself that 
took me to the place to be joined up.” Mike grew 
pensive and stared into the sputtering candle 





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light. 

“Then you really haven’t a great deal to worry 
about at home, have you?” 

“Sure it don’t seem right,” Mike complained. 
“As soon as I get here mother begins writing 
letters telling me that David Church has been 
getting her to buy Liverty Bonds and Salvation 
Armies and Y. M. C. A.’s fbr the boys that’s 
fighting over here. She says all she was after 
doing was the signing of papers. It’s meself 
that’s thinking David Church is a slick un. 
It isn’t any good he’s after, bad cess to him.” 

“There, there,” Esmond replied soothingly. 
“The people in Alder Valley would never let 
him do anything to the farm or harm your 
folks in any way while you were over here—never 
in the world.” 

“But you don’t know Banker Church, ” Mike 
declared. Then rising slowly- to his knees and 
looking Esmond squarely in the eyes he said: 
“Sure Esmond, an’ you’re the only man I’d be 
telling this to, but if them Boches kill me I’d 
like to die thinking you’d go back to the old 
place and see that everything is all right. It’s 
meself that’ll be feeling like a new man if you’ll 
tell me now that you’ll do it.” 

Esmond grasped both of Mike’s hands in his 
own and solemnly accepted the responsibility. 
Mike sighed heavily, and then Esmond saw the 
worry pass from the boyish face and the merry 






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twinkle come back into his eyes. “Sure now I can 
give them the devil himself—” he said. 

The relief completed, Esmond made his way 
to platoon headquarters, a square hole dug into 
the no-man’s-land side of the trench. Already a 
thick yellow candle flickered from a guarded 
niche in the wall, two pup tents covered the floor, 
and a third hung sodden and wet over the narrow 
hole that led to the trench. He found Mulvaney 
seated against the damp wall emptying his 
pockets of letters, crumpled francs, a picture 
or two, and such other tokens of life as boys car¬ 
ried to the trenches. 

“Getting the wind up, Mike?” Esmond queried 
with a grin. 

A hideous roar, a second of suspense, then a 
deafening crash that extinguished the candle 
and sent mess kits and packs rattling from their 
bayonet pegs, interrupted the answer. 

“An’ where the devil will that one be goin’ ?” 
said Mike. 

After the initial crash came the hurricane of 
screaming, roaring metal. 

“Jerry’s found out we’re making the relief,” 
Esmond muttered. “Late as usual. Just about 
got 69th at that. Poor devils! I don’t mind staying 
in the line. It’s coming in and going out I hate. 
Take a look and see where those are falling.” 

A corporal edged his way into the trench. 



“We’ll be able to say we’ve seen it all anyway,” 
he announced. “Suppose that’ll mean anything, 
Sarge—after it’s all over?” 

“Oh I guess so—to the fellow who says it.” 
Esmond grinned. “They’ll make heroes of us all 
right—whether we are or not.” 

The corporal poked his head through the hole. 
“Come out here, you fellows, Gad, they’re sure 
getting it! Take a look.” 

The sky above the German lines was ablaze 
with circles, clusters, and streaks of vari-colored 
lights. White bursts of dazzling flares suddenly 
broke and hung suspended over no man’s land, 
while all the hysteria of war seemed to find ex¬ 
pression in the screaming, groaning monsters that 
filled the air above the black, cold trenches where 
the watchers stood. 

“They’re after the 69th all right,” Mulvaney 
muttered. “Won’t last long.” 

The corporal and Esmond crawled back to the 
dugout, while Mulvaney went off to ‘do his 
turn’ at watching with his squad. 

A few persons will long remember the horrible 
massacre of Nieuvallier. The engagement came 
in the blackest hour of the night. Somehow, 
somewhere, there had been a mistake in orders. 
The night before, a French officer had reported to 
the Captain of Company O that a practice bar¬ 
rage might be expected sometime before sunrise. 
Supporting machine-gun units had received the 


same information. Aside from the usual shelling 
of the black areas the sector had been quiet, and 
no unusual signs of activity from the enemy 
line had been reported. And then suddenly, just 
before dawn on the fatal morning, the German 
raid started with a furious avalanche of shells 
that fell on both sides and to the rear of the 
doomed company with such deadly effect that not 
even a messenger could be despatched for aid. 
The barrage continued until the trenches and em¬ 
bankments were reduced to smoking, seething 
heaps. Resistance was useless, for there was 
nothing that a human could resist. Then came 
the creeping barrage—the wall of death that 
swept everything before it and directly following 
came the soldiers, iron men to whom raiding was 
a specialty. Long training .and bitter years of 
experience had fitted them well for the ghastly 
business. Liquid fire, hand bombs, trench knives, 
black jack, rifles and automatic guns finished what 
little remained after the barrage had lifted. The 
paralysis of fear that came with the first deluge 
of shells gave way to the reaction of hate and 
blood lust. Like frantic fear driven beasts men 
came together in the dark and fought it out. 

Sergeant Esmond was everywhere from 
the very first, guiding men here and there and 
helping the wounded to the first-aid dug-outs with 
utter disregard for his own safety. In the ex¬ 
citement and wild confusion of the barrage he 













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had ordered Mulvaney to take charge of the 
headquarters dug-out, with instructions to stay 
below until relieved. Yet half-an-hour later, when 
Esmond called for help in lifting a badly 
wounded man, it was Mulvaney that he dis¬ 
covered almost immediately by his side. 

“Couldn’t stand the dug-out no longer,” Mike 
grumbled, as he strained under the weight of 
the wounded man. But there was little time for 
words, even if they could have been heard and 
Mulvaney stayed where he was and stuck by 
Esmond. The deadly hand-to-hand struggle found 
them fighting side by side, and to the very end 
they stood their ground, hurling hand grenades 
and manning a French automatic, until the 
last of the raiders withdrew. 

And then, after the worst of it was over, 
came the tragic end of Private Mike Mulvaney. 
A hand grenade thrown by the retreating raiders 
landed with an ominous hiss not six inches from 
where Esmond stood. With a wild rush Mul¬ 
vaney literally swept Esmond from his feet and 
shoved him headlong into the trench ahead. A 
second later the deadly explosion sent Mike him¬ 
self staggering to Esmond’s side. But, unlike 
Esmond, he did not rise again to his feet, and 
with a deadly fear at his heart Esmond raised 
the limp figure in his arms. Presently the heavy 
eyelids lifted, and the clear blue eyes, gazing 
languidly around, seemed to dilate with a look 








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of wonder. Then, although his features were 
already drawn and haggard in the ghastly grey 
light of early dawn, he drew Esmond’s face 
close to his own and with mumbling lips ap¬ 
peared to be trying to deliver a message. Noise 
and danger and suffering were forgotten as the 
eyes of these two sought and held each other, 
their souls holding silent communion for the 
last time. Then with a sigh Mike dropped 
his head on Esmond’s shoulder and lay still. 
His part in the conflict was over. 




CHAPTER I 

A BOON STREET BOARDING HOUSE 


Milton Esmond had gone to sleep in his dingy 
room on Boon Street with the grim satisfaction of 
knowing that a job awaited him in the morning. 
An hour before sunrise he awoke with a start, 
looked at the illuminated figures on his wrist 
watch, and turned over for another sleep. He 
repeated this performance some half-dozen times 
before finally deciding to take no further chances 
of over-sleeping, but once up and about a new 
problem presented itself, the problem of suitable 
attire. For this new job called for overalls, a 
work shirt with sleeves cut off at the elbows, and 
such other garments as generally distinguish a 
mechanic’s helper. 

Esmond was well enough aware that Mrs. 
Mulvaney’s early breakfast boarders would not 
object to such a costume, if indeed any of them 
would be about early enough to join him in that 
meal. With two exceptions the boarders were 
a tiresome lot anyhow. A flippant young doctor 
whom the flu had saved from bankruptcy; a 
school teacher of uncertain years who had digni¬ 
fied herself into bored obscurity, and who had a 
terrible habit of always taking exactly two pieces 
of toast and a cup of tea for breakfast. It seemed 
to Esmond that she always left the table early 
to impress upon the landlady the fact that she was 










































































































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not consuming as much food as the others, al¬ 
though paying exactly the same rate. 

One of the exceptions was Earl Rogers, an 
enthusiastic young promotor, recently graduated 
from the Department of Geology in one of the 
East’s largest Universities. Earl was the life 
of every meal. Whenever he happened to be 
seated at the table at the same time as Miss 
Wescott, the dignified school teacher, he made a 
point of enlarging upon the ease with which he 
had glided through his courses of instructions at 
the university. He denounced everyone who took 
school seriously, and claimed that nine-tenths of 
the ordinary courses of instructions were nothing 
but a millstone that was hung about the necks of 
the school children. He succeeded in aggra¬ 
vating Miss Wescott immensely. The rest of 
the boarders regarded him with a sad indiffer¬ 
ence, remarking, when he chanced to leave them 
at the table, on the vast store of experience he 
was soon to bump into, which would undoubtedly 
change his views of life. For some reason or 
other Earl had been condemned to a war ex¬ 
perience confined to the making out of tedious 
reports in Washington, D. C., and he had felt 
worse about this than about anything else. He 
had wanted to go to France very badly, and made 
no bones about telling people so. Perhaps that 
was why he took such a liking to Esmond. At 
any rate Esmond found Earl Rogers interesting, 













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and always glad to see him at the table. 

There were half-a-dozen other rank-and-file 
boarders, victims all of the eight-hour-a-day, early 
closing, Saturday-afternoon-off social system 
that no self-respecting wage earner could avoid. 
They might have been interesting had they not 
long ago surrendered to what H. G. Wells de¬ 
scribes as a “carefully inspected sanitary life, 
tethered to some light, little, unimportant daily 
job,” a bordom that might fairly be compared 
with the hunger and death they avoided, and lose 
nothing in the comparison. 

The second exception, the exception that made 
Esmond hesitate between donning the clothes his 
new job called for and those he had worn in 
hunting the job, was a girl who had come to 
board with Mrs. Mulvaney several weeks before 
he himself landed his job. Mrs. Mulvaney had 
introduced her as Miss Orma Williams. A little 
reflection, coupled with what he had already 
seen of the new boarder, weighed the balance 
in favor of his job-hunting clothes, and after a 
careful toilet which included concealing as best 
he could a rent or two just below the collar of his 
shirt, Esmond went down to breakfast. 

“Sure an’ it’s bright an’ early yer up this 
mornin,’ me boy,” Mrs. Mulvaney called from 
the kitchen. “Mornin’ to you,” she beamed a 
moment later as she swung open the door and 
brought in a tray of breakfast dishes that in- 







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eluded a tempting plate of ham and eggs. “I 
heard ye gettin’ up, an’ sure I said: I’ll be gettin’ 
him somethin’ a little special before the rest of 
’em comes down!” 

‘‘Just like you, Mother Mulvaney. Morning 
yourself. You must have heard the news.” But 
Mrs. Mulvaney hadn’t, so Esmond hastened to 
explain. “Landed a job. Finally got taken on 
in the Ehen Lewis Works—they’re going to make 
a mechanic of me.” 

“Sure an’ it’s glad I am to hear it, me boy. 
The whole world knows that Eben Lewis pays 
the highest wages. But I never thought of ye 
bein’ a mechanic.” 

Mrs. Mulvaney appraised Esmond’s clothes, 
then studied his face. Impulsively she drew up 
a chair, and seating herself close beside him spoke 
with a deep earnestness in her voice. “Me boy- 
look at me. It’s the truth I’m wantin’. Is it goin’ 
to be hard work, and can ye stand it?” 

“Easily,” Esmond assured her. “The Lewis 
factory is all specialized, you see. One man 
does nothing but screw on nuts all day—another 
man puts on wheels—another paints the nuts 
the first man puts on—and so it goes. A boy 
could do it.” 

Mother Mulvaney shook her head doubtfully. 
“An that’ll be makin’ a mechanic of ye?” she 
asked. 

“Well,” Esmond laughed, “of course Mother 












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it won’t. But I’ll get the wages of a mechanic’s 
assistant, and when I know enough to stand by 
and watch a machine pound out the nuts, I’ll 
be a mechanic. Something like that. Remember 
I haven’t worked there yet.” He glanced at his 
watch. “And if I don’t get started, chances are 
I never will.” He glanced thoughtfully towards 
the stairs. “Guess as long as I keep this job I’ll 
be eating breakfast alone.” 

“Sure an’ that’s something you ought to be 
thankin’ God for. City folks is a queer lot. I’m 
worryin’ myself sick to know how to feed ’em. 
Give ’em a good ould stew for dinner and ye’d 
think I’d biled a tom cat. Sure an’ they won’t be 
eatin’ potatoes for supper the next thing. Country 
folks is what I’m longin’ me heart out for, boy.” 
Mother Mulvaney threatened to lapse into what 
Esmond called her ‘melancholy’, and he hastened 
to divert the attack. 

“Cheer up, Mother,” he urged. “It won’t be 
for always, and maybe I’ll get some of the men 
from the factory to come and board here. Then 
you’ll be broke trying to feed ’em.” 

Breakfast finished, Esmond hurried up-stairs, 
donned his working clothes, and then as he 
entered the hall ran squarely into Miss Williams 
who was about to go down for breakfast. 

For a moment Miss Williams regarded him 
for all the world as though he were a plumber 
or a janitor bent on some early morning repair 




6 


work, then realizing her mistake she smiled 
pleasantly, though to Esmond it seemed a bit 
confusedly. Later on he recalled that she had 
addressed him as ‘Mr. Esmond’. She had remem¬ 
bered his name at least. Esmond delivered a very 
perfunctory ‘Good morning’, and hurried to the 
street. 

Orma found the breakfast table deserted, save 
for Mrs. Mulvaney who was gathering up the 
dishes left by Esmond. 

“Couldn’t wait a minute longer,” Orma de¬ 
clared after exchanging greetings with Mrs. Mul¬ 
vaney. “That ham you were frying got me up 
a whole hour before I was through sleeping.” 

“Lands sake child, and are you for wantin’ ham 
and eggs for breakfast?” For a moment Mrs. 
Mulvaney’s eagerness confused Orma. “Why 
yes,” she stammered. “I love ’em. But I eat 
anything. Whatever you have. Only I thought 
I smelled ham frying.” 

“Sure an’ you did, child, but it ain’t like me 
boarders here to be after eatin’ decent vittles like 
that for breakfast. Some of ’em wants a bit o’ 
toast an’ tea. The doctor do be wantin’ one egg, 
boiled by the clock. Another is after wantin’ his 
grapefruit and Graham crackers an’ the likes o’ 
that, till I’m near crazy with wondering how 
they keep alive.” 

Orma’s bright blue eyes sparkled with delight 
at such an extraordinary complaint coming from a 














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7 


Boon Street boarding-house keeper. She laughed 
heartily, busying herself the while by deftly scrap¬ 
ing up crumbs from the spread. “But you were 
frying ham—surely I couldn’t have dreamed it, 
could I?” 

“Sure an’ I was. It was for me boy Esmond, 
what goes to work this mornin’. An’ if all the 
boarders was like him, it’s divvle a bit of com¬ 
plainin’ that you’d hear from me.” 

“Oh then Mr. Esmond is your boy?” 

In an instant Mrs. Mulvaney’s kindly face 
grew sad, and the motherly wrinkles that belied 
the sincerity of her chronic complaining changed 
to lines of sorrow. “No,” she answered. “Mich¬ 
ael was me boy, the only one I had. He was a 
sojer boy, an’—an’ he didn’t come back with the 
rest.” Her chin trembled, and a suggestion 
of tears gave Orma a sudden feeling that she had 
needlessly blundered into a delicate and personal 
subject. Impulsively she put her arm about the 
old lady’s shoulders and tried to comfort her. 

“There, there! I shouldn’t have asked such a 
foolish question. I might have known Mr. Es¬ 
mond was not—was not—that you introduced him 
as Milton Esmond. Let’s not talk of it any more 
this morning. The rest of the boarders will be 
coming down any minute. I’m afraid I’ve spoiled 
your whole day now. I’m really very very sorry, 
Mrs. Mulvaney.” 

“Now don’t be after carryin’ on this way child,” 









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Mrs. Mulvaney answered, bracing herself with an 
effort. “Sure an’ it’s wantin’ to talk to somebody 
—and cry a little now and then that’s ailin’ me. 
My boy Milton won’t let me, and there’s none 
of the rest of ’em that would stop and listen.” 

Creaks on the stairway announced others com¬ 
ing down for breakfast. Mrs. Mulvaney hastily 
dried her eyes and reached for the tray of dishes. 
For a moment longer she regarded the girl 
closely as though debating the wisdom of an im¬ 
pulse that had suddenly seized her. The creaks 
coming lower and lower on the stairway hastened 
her decision, and drawing close to Orma she 
said guardedly: “Sure an’ if you’ll be cornin’ to 
the kitchen it’ll do me ould heart good to see 
you eatin’ ham an’ eggs.” 

Then for the first time Mrs. Mulvaney noticed 
the dainty orchid dress, the soft blonde hair, the 
trim grey stokings and spotless Oxfords to match, 
that in appearance made Orma anything but a 
‘kitchen’ boarder, and a look of bewilderment 
came over her face. “That is,” she stammered, 
“if the likes of you would be cornin’ into the 
kitchen.” 

If Orma had any intention of declining the 
first impulsive invitation, this challenge settled 
the matter. “I’d just dearly love to,” she de¬ 
clared, and hurried through the swinging door 
just as Dr. Beeman, and Miss Wescott the school 
teacher, entered the dining room. Behind her 









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stiff bone-rimmed glasses Miss Wescott studied 
the table critically. 

“Surely we are not the first ones to breakfast,” 
she declared as Mrs. Mulvaney entered the room. 
“People seem to be gettin’ up at all hours of 
the morning. Was Mr. Esmond the early riser? 
—or has Mr. Rogers suddenly decided to take life 
seriously?” 

“Sure Mr. Esmond’s has been oh to work the 
last hour,” Mrs. Mulvaney answered. “And it’s 
a gintleman Mr. Rogers is goin’ to be. He’s 
after gettin’ an oil well in Pennsylvany. Like as 
not he won’t be breakfastin’ at all any more.” 

“Didn’t hear a soul myself,” Dr. Beeman com¬ 
plained. “I wish I had. I’ve got to find some 
way of getting down here early to get the paper 
I pay for. Seems like something happens to it 
every morning.” 

Other boarders came and went until by nine 
o’clock the table was deserted, and Mrs. Mul¬ 
vaney was left alone with her kitchen guest. 
Orma had seated herself comfortably before the 
little kitchen table which, together with a few old 
wooden chairs and stools, Mrs. Mulvaney lov¬ 
ingly referred to as her ‘country stuff’. Long 
before the last boarder had left the dining room 
Orma had finished her breakfast, donned a ging¬ 
ham apron, and insisted on helping dry the dishes 
while Mrs. Mulvaney talked. 

“Sure an’ you’re a funny boarder,” the old 





IO 


lady commenced. “An’ when ye came I thought 
ye was a dandy and wouldn’t be likin’ it with me. 
An’ here y’are up to your elbows in the kitchen! 
Land sakes, what would me boy Milton say if he 
could see you”! 

“It’s really a treat, Mrs. Mulvaney, to come 
out and do something like this—when you don’t 
have to,” Orma replied. “And I—I could tell 
you were a little upset this morning. You wanted 
to talk to somebody, didn’t you?” 

“It’s a good girl you are, my dear. There’s 
women boardin’ wid me twice your age, and all 
they’ve been sayin’ for months is ‘Good mornin’, 
Mrs. Mulvaney, in the mornin’, an’ ‘I’m not 
hungry today’, at noon, an’ ‘wasn’t there any 
mail?’ at night. And niver a one of ’em sayin’ 
‘Top of the mornin’ to ye, Mother Mulvaney, 
an’ I’m hungry as a wolf’. An’ now you, that 
looks like you came out of a picture book and 
niver been nearer the country than Cintral Park, 
comes along, and I’m a cryin’ wid ye the second 
week yer here.” 

“You really don’t like the city, do you Mrs. 
Mulvaney?” Orma asked. 

“An’ won’t ye be callin’ me Mother—like me 
boy Milton, what went to work this mornin’?” 

“Of course I will/’ Orma declared. “I’ve 
really been wanting to all the time.” 

“God bless ye child! No, I’m not much for 
likin’ the city. It’s the country I’m used to, and 






it’s country people I’m wantin’!” 

“Somehow I always think of the country too 
when I see you Mother,” said Orma. “You 
don’t belong in the city at all. Even your food 
tastes different, somehow. You used to be in the 
country, didn’t you?” 

Mother Mulvaney lapsed to a pensive mood. 
“Up to a year ago,” she replied. Then seizing 
the opportunity to dwell further on the subject 
that was always uppermost in her heart, she went 
on: “When me boy Mike went off in his sojer 
clothes—I’ll be showin’ you his picture when 
I’m out o’ me dishwater—his ould father and 
meself was runnin’ the grandest little place in 
Alder Valley ever you laid yer eyes on.” 

Mother Mulvaney emptied the dishwater from 
a cracked old pan, obviously another relic of the 
old days, and continued: “The old man was a 
cripple and died on me hands within the month 
Mike left. God rest their souls! To hide her 
emotions Mrs. Mulvaney carried some things 
into a closet, and when she emerged there were 
traces of tears in her eyes. “Then banker David 
Church came to straighten things out. But did 
he straighten ’em out? He did hot. He told 
me I should be a givin’ till it hurt’ to liberty 
bonds and Y. M. C. A.’s and the like. There 
was poor Mike a fightin’ for his country, an’ the 
banker says as how he’d never be winnin’ without 
the liberty bonds and such.” 














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“ ‘Sure an’ a Mulvaney never needed the likes 
o’ them to fight wid in the ould days’, I told him. 
But he was smooth wid his blarney and sa»id all 
I had to be doin’ was the signin’ of papers an’ 
he’d do the rest. An’ he didn’t tell me it was a 
mortgage I was makin’.” 

“And you mortgaged the place!” 

“That’s what I was for findin’ out late. But 
the Saints strike me dead if I was knowin’ when 
I did it!” 

“But surely—” 

“You won’t be understandin’ of it, child,” 
Mother Mulvaney continued. “It ain’t fer 
women folks to be knowin’ about such like. I 
was waitin’ fer me boy Mike. But Michael, me 
poor boy, Mike, he didn’t come back.” Mrs. 
Mulvaney could hide her emotions no longer, and 
Orma let her have her cry. 

“An’ then,” resumed Mrs. Mulvaney presently, 
wiping her eyes, “who should be cornin’ to Alder 
Valley but a strappin’ young man that looked 
for all the world like me boy Mike. It was 
Mike’s laugh he had, and Mike’s kiss, and Mike’s 
blarney. But it wasn’t Mike. It was me boy 
Milton—Milton Esmond. An’ that’s the first I’d 
ever laid eyes on him.” 

“Fer months he’d like to have worked his 
heart out tryin’ to save the farm. Sure an’ I 
thought he’d kill banker Church, he was that 
fightin’ mad. You’d a thought he was an Irish- 



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3 


man—an’ I’m thinkin’ now there’s Irish in ’im. 
But the murderin’ thieves was too strong fer ’im. 
Sure he says to me at last, he says: ‘Mither, it’s 
a stranglehold them bankers has got on the 
country, but I’m goin’ to fight ’em. I’m goin’ to 
break the stranglehold!’” 

“But what could the poor boy be doin’? For 
a long time I was that broke up over poor Mike 
not cornin’ back, I wasn’t knowin’ much or carin’ 
either what was goin’ on. But after a while 
I began to take notice of things that was bein’ 
said around, and when part of me head came 
back to me I could see that the Mulvaneys was 
doomed. What with Mike gone, and his father 
who never amounted to much gone too, what 
could a poor ould woman like me be doin’ ? But 
when I found out that the bankers could take 
my home away from me with that piece of 
paper I signed, I was for quittin’ entirely, takin’ 
me scrubbin’ brush, and goin’ somewhere to work. 
I was that broke up about it all I would have 
gone entirely, but Milton stood by me like me 
own boy Mike. He was never for leavin’ me 
do a thing. He kept the news away as long as he 
could, and when at last they came to take the 
ould place Esmond cried just as if it was his own 
home, an’ his own mither that was bein’ robbed. 
‘Niver mind,’ he tole me. ‘I’m young and strong, 
an’ I can work’. He wanted to start all over 
again, but I could tell that he was havin’ a hard 




14 


time of it himself. Once I heard banker Church 
tellin’ one of the men what robbed me of the 
farm not to be afeared of a shell-shocked boy, 
the likes of Milton Esmond. But just the same I 
could see in his eyes it wasn’t goin’ to be well 
for banker Church and the rest of ’em, once 
Milton Esmond was gettin’ back on his feet. 

“An’ so 1 put my foot down on lettin’ him 
support an ould woman the likes o’ me. His 
blarney wasn’t foolin’ me, an’ I wasn’t fer lettin’ 
him work like a slave, him with gassed lungs 
and the like, to keep me. Of course I had a mite 
of friends back in Alder Valley, but you’ve no 
notion how most of them have been since the 
war. All of us were raisin’ broomeorn, an’ all 
at once we couldn’t be sellin’ it. The bankers 
got mortgages on everybody’s farms, an’ none 
of them could be doin’ much for me. The 
bankers had ’em scared. If they even so much 
as felt sorry fer me, they told me so. But at 
the same time they told me they’d be joinin’ me 
up wherever I went, because the same bankers that 
had mortgaged my farm had mortgaged theirs 
too. But there was one of them that was afeared 
o’ nothin’—he was John Grant, the Lawyer, an’ 
a real friend of Esmond’s. ‘Buddies’ they called 
each other. It was because I couldn’t stand to 
see the old place bein’ run by somebody else, 
because I was near crazy with it all, that at 
least I was agreeable to leavin’ the ould Valley 





















i5 


and cornin’ to New York where Milton said he 
could be gettin’ the law and the money to go 
back and clean up the robbers that took me place 
away from me. He’s always sayin’ as how he 
will break the stranglehold, and had to -come to 
New York to do it. God knows why. But 
when he was for leavin’ the Valley John Grant 
said he would be gettin’ the law on ’em himself, 
and would let us know the minute something 
could be done, and it’s hopin’ I am that we’ll be 
hearin’ good news from him.” 

The story finished at last, Orma sat and talked 
of other things until Mother Mulvaney declared 
she felt much better. Presently Orma rose and 
prepared to depart. “Tell Mr. Esmond,” she 
said, “that if I can help him in any way I will be 
glad to do so.” 

“Sure an’ what could a wisp of a child like 
you be doin’?” 

“Well—well—” Orma stammered. “You see 
it takes something besides determination to do 
what you say Mr. Esmond is trying. It takes 
education for one thing . . . .” 

“An’ he’ll be happy at havin’ you teach him, 
that I know.” Mother Mulvaney shook her head 
knowingly. “He’s smart as a whip, you know. 
It ain’t because he lacks learnin’ that made him 
come to work here. He’s been watchin’ what 
Eben Lewis has been sayin’ for months about 
bankers in his paper. And you mark my word,” 



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Mother Mulvaney shook her finger knowingly, 
“he’ll be gettin’ up high with Eben Lewis. He’s 
that kind. He’ll be workin’ right up.” 

Orma was slightly puzzled. “But didn’t I 
see him—this very morning—going to work as a 
laborer?” 

“That you did, my dear. He’s learnin’ to be 
a mechanic or something down at the Eben Lewis 
works.” 

“At the Eben Lewis works!” Orma exclaimed. 
“Why that’s where 1 am! How strange!” 

It was now Mrs. Mulvaney’s turn to be sur¬ 
prised. “Lord, girl!” she added. “An’ what on 
earth could they be doin’ with the likes o’ you 
in a machine works?” 

“Oh it’s more than a machine works,” Orma 
laughed. “The machine works is only one of 
the links in a chain, a chain that included mines, 
and foundaries, and smelting works, and different 
kinds of manufacturing plants and railroads and 
all sorts of things. I see you haven’t any idea 
what it means to be a modern industrial Napo¬ 
leon. And there’s the newspaper too—the Pendu¬ 
lum. I am on the editorial staff.” 

“Sure an’ I knew there was something at the 
bottom of me boy’s wantin’ to get into the Eben 
Lewis place. I’ll be after tellin’ ’im you’re there 
too, fast as ever he gets home. 

Orma seemed strangely perturbed at what 
Mother Mulvaney had said. She advanced near 











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the elder woman, and in a very earnest tone said: 
“Mother, there is something very important that 
I must say to Mr. Esmond. I think perhaps I 
can tell him something about the Eben Lewis 
organization that he ought to know. Not that 
I don’t think he is very brilliant,” she added, 
“only I think in this particular case maybe I can 
help him somehow.” 

“Go on wid ye,” Mrs. Mulvaney warned with 
an affectation of concern. “I’m thinkin’ he’d play 
at bein’ an ignorant dunce if he thought he could 
be gettin’ a teacher like you/’ 














. 








CHAPTER II 
THE TREADMILL 

“You want ‘the pen’, not the new works,’’ a 
diminutive, freckled-faced boy pointed out to Es^ 
mond, who was having difficulties finding his way 
to the particular gate noted on his employment 
card. 

“All right,’’ said Esmond good-naturedly. 
“Where do I find ‘the pen’?” 

The boy explained, and Esmond, following the 
directions found himself presently beneath the 
cold grey walls of the old Eben Lewis works,- 
facetiously termed ‘the pen’ ever since the acres 
of modern new factory buildings, evidence of the 
amazing growth of the Eben Lewis industry had 
been erected. 

Although he had left Mother Mulvaney’s in 
plenty of time he found that he was not early. 
A number of workmen sitting or lolling about 
in groups, engaged in idle conversation, scruti¬ 
nized every face that appeared before the closed 
gates. Milton found himself wondering how 
many of them were new hands like himself. 
Turning to a man at his elbow he motioned 
towards the factory and asked: “Have you 
worked here long?” 

"Five months,” was the answer. “I’ll be doin’ 
my turn in another month if things hold up. You 






















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19 


just startin’ ?” 

“Yes, this will be my first day,” Esmond re¬ 
plied, with a show of appreciation of his fellow 
worker’s seniority. “Suppose I was pretty 
lucky gettin’ on here.” 

“I’ll say you were. Five dollars a day, in¬ 
surance, chance to get a house if you want it 
and everything. Wish I’d had sense enough to 
start a year ago. Had a chance too, but I 
didn’t take it. Let’s see your card.” 

Esmond offered his evidence of employment 
for the other’s scrutiny. “Well that’s good. 
You’re takin’ the wop’s place. He got fired last 
week. You’re goin’ to be next to me—same plat¬ 
form. I’m John Steele. They just call me 
‘John’.” 

“And I’m Milton—Milton Esmond.” 

“So the wop got fired?” queried Esmond. 
“What was the trouble with him?” 

“He fell down on the efficiency test,” the other 
explained. “Did his work all right, but had to 
leave his place pretty frequent and go to the 
rear. You understand—some trouble he had that 
made him kinda weak inside. He tried to explain 
it to me once, but he couldn’t speak English very 
good, and I had a job following him. All I 
could make out was that he fell into a bed of 
nitre cake at a dynamite plant. That’s what 
started his trouble. Anyhow he had to go to the 
rear about every hour or so.” 




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“But surely that wouldn’t be held against 
him?” Esmond protested. 

The other grinned. “Sure it was. Every¬ 
thing’s held against you. Every time you leave 
your job you’re checked out—then you’re checked 
in when you get back. There’s an efficiency man 
on the job who can tell you how long it takes you 
to walk from the rear to your station even!” 

The thing seemed incredible to Esmond, yet 
he had heard strange stories of the Eben Lewis 
methods. He felt a vague resentment at the 
scheme of things, a sense of incipient mutiny that 
he himself should have nothing whatever to do 
with the choosing of the place where he was to 
spend eight long hours each day, or that he 
should not even be consulted as to the kind of 
work he was to be called on to perform. “I 
suppose it’s the new idea,” he thought grimly. “I 
guess the old-fashioned notion that every man is 
the master of his own destiny is played out. 
Somebody else shapes your destiny now.” He 
turned again to John Steele. “What exactly did 
you mean by ‘doing your turn’ ?” he asked. 

“Serving six months,” Steele replied. “After 
six months, if we hit the ball and don’t talk too 
much, we go up to the new factory. It’s six 
dollars there, and a better place to work.” 

Just then a huge gong resounded from the top 
of the grey concrete wall, the doors swung open, 
and the workmen filed through. Steele took Mil- 







































































































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21 


ton in charge and guided him to the window 
where new hands reported, and left him there 
with the section foreman saying he would see 
him later. 

Orville B. Collins, the foreman, impressed 
Esmond as a man who carried the burdens of the 
world on his shoulders. With deadly precision 
he ordered men here and there, pushed buttons, 
and O. K.’d papers. For fully fifteen minutes 
Esmond, completely forgotten it seemed, stood 
close to a protecting pillar marvelling at the un¬ 
canny efficiency of it all. Then a gong sounded 
from above the foreman’s desk; wheels began 
turning; belts flipped and flapped; a cloud of fine 
metallic dust settled in the air, and the great Eben 
Lewis plant swung into action. Milton edged to¬ 
ward the counter where Mr. Collins was still im¬ 
mersed in details, and the latter, looking up sud¬ 
denly, seemed to remember him. 

“You’ll take platform number nine. I’ll take 
you there and get you started. Wait for the re¬ 
port. Ah, here it comes now.” 

A Young man with a deeply wrinkled brow, 
who fairly radiated importance and pressing 
business, mounted the heavy counter that sepa¬ 
rated the foreman’s station from the whirling 
machinery. Then for the first time Esmond ob¬ 
served a bulletin board suspended from the ceil¬ 
ing directly over the foreman’s desk. Across the 
top of the board ran the legend “Efficiency Re- 





















22 


port.” Beneath this the busy man wrote in bold 
white letters: “This Section was 89 percent ef¬ 
ficient in starting work this morning. Tomorrow 
morning 

The foreman seemed a bit perturbed, but said 
nothing, merely motioning Esmond to follow him. 
A moment later they brought up in front of a 
raised platform that parallelled an endless row 
of belts, wheels and small chains, and elevators 
that came up through the floor and continued 
their journey through the ceiling above. In front 
of one of these elevators Collins stopped. “Now 
watch how this man does it,” he ordered, indi¬ 
cating a burly laborer who stood close to the 
elevator. “Then take charge.” 

Esmond could scarcely restrain a smile at the 
sight of the stalwart, heavily-muscled man, 
solemnly engaged in a task that would have been 
mere play to a five-year-old boy. It set him 
musing on the trend of modern efficiency. “And 
yet,” he reflected, “could a five-year-old boy 
bear it? Even a five-year-old boy understands 
the joy of a task well done—hates monotony and 
sameness. His youthful imagination just start¬ 
ing to unfold, would balk. It would be hard to 
make him stick at a job that in his eyes could 
scarcely appear to be anything but humdrum and 
foolish in the extreme—as it actually is. Ap¬ 
parently one’s efficiency increases in inverse ratio 
to the decline of one’s initiative and imaginative 









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23 

qualities. Could this really be the highest that 
modern industrialism had to offer?” 

“You/’ Collins continued to the laborer, “will 
do utility work at No. 7. Leave this man in fif¬ 
teen minutes.” The laborer nodded his head and 
beckoned to Esmond who drew near and pro¬ 
ceeded to concentrate on exactly what his work 
was to be. 

The elevator carried metal tubes each about 
twelve inches in length, lying for the most part in 
orderly fashion on carriers fastened to the ele¬ 
vator. But as Esmond observed the thing closely 
he noticed that quite often two tubes would be 
found riding where one should be, also that some 
came up through the floor standing on end in¬ 
stead of lying flat. Here, then, came the neces¬ 
sity for the human machine. The laborer quickly 
adjusted all irregular tubes, and in addition oiled 
the sturdy little wheels over which the elevator 
ran. At the end of ten minutes Esmond assured 
the utility man that he was ready to take charge. 
He observed his friend John Steele further along 
on the same platform stoically watching another 
endless succession of tubes coming up through the 
floor on an elevator like his. Their tasks were 
evidently identical. 

And this was a job in the famous Eben Lewis 
factory! Before an hour passed Esmond won¬ 
dered if he would ever do his turn as Steele had 
called the first six months. The horrible 



24 


monotony of the thing shocked and appalled him. 
He speculated on who had first called the place 
‘the pen.’ “Undoubtedly,” he assured himself, 
“someone who has actually been in a penitentiary 
and knew whereof he spoke.” Still even a tread¬ 
mill has its advantages. For one thing there was 
nothing in the new job that required the slightest 
exertion of his brain, thus rendering this seem¬ 
ingly unnecessary organ available for other pur¬ 
poses—a circumstance that appealed strongly to 
Esmond. 

As the long hours dragged wearily by he re¬ 
called the first impulse he had had to know more 
about Eben Lewis. He had always heard of him 
as a power in the land, a kind of King. That was 
before the war. And since the war he (Lewis) 
had been more to the front than ever. Who 
hadn’t heard of him? In Esmond’s eyes Lewis 
had always been the great pioneer manufacturer 
with interests as wide as the nation itself, a man 
who conceived great ideas and had the faculty of 
carrying them through successfully. He had even 
dared to attack the very scheme of things—made 
bold and staggering proposals—seemed imper¬ 
vious to criticism. The world recognized him as 
one of the greatest exponents of high specializa¬ 
tion and departmentalized production. But 
already Esmond was coming to understand what 
such a system meant, was coming to fear that it 
would reduce any human that might be its victim 
























































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25 


to the level of a mere automatic machine. And 
yet, so great had been his admiration for the 
man, Esmond could not permit himself to dwell 
unduly on this phase of the secret of Lewis’ 
greatness, and as fast as hatred and dislike of the 
stereotyping process he saw in operation round 
about him swelled up in his bosom, just as fast 
did he stifle and put it down. 

Hadn’t Ebeh Lewis dared to challenge the 
banking system of the nation? For this Esmond 
had paid him homage. For months he had been 
following the series of articles on banking that 
had been running in Lewis’ paper ‘The Pendu¬ 
lum’, and had been impressed by their fearless¬ 
ness and their apparent sincerity. He had 
started reading them just after he had failed 
miserably in his own bitter struggle with the 
banking system in Alder Valley, Oklahoma. He 
had, in fact, hardly made his sacred vow to break 
the Strangle Hold as he called it of Banker 
Church and his crowd, when Eben Lewis himself 
launched a national campaign along similar lines. 
It had in fact been this very thing that had con¬ 
firmed Esmond in his decision to meet the great 
Eben Lewis in person at all costs, even though 
it meant working his way up in Lewis’ factory 
from the very bottom rung of the ladder. 

When Esmond completed his first day at the 
plant he was conscious of a curious presentment 
that his day had been utterly wasted—that the 





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2 6 


days to follow would be equally wasted. He 
found himself filled with a vague uneasiness as 
he trudged out through the gates, one of 
thousands trudging through the gates, all human 
machines like himself. He sickened at the 
thought of the enormous wastage of human ef¬ 
fort, of the stifling and stunting of minds, and 
the dwarfing of vision that was going on day by 
day. u What sort of scheme is it,” he asked 
himself bitterly, “that sets full-grown men on to 
the work of boys simply because it ‘pays’? Does 
it really pay? Have you actually done something 
that has ‘paid’ when you have ‘tethered a man to 
a light, little unimportant job’ and left him there 
till he has become totally incapable of doing any¬ 
thing but light, little unimportant jobs? It all 
depends, I suppose, on how you interpret the 
word ‘paid.’ In the sense that you have turned 
out a popular article at a low price, you have 
done something that ‘pays.’ But can a popular 
article at a low price be offset in point of 
economy against reducing thousands of human 
beings to the condition of mere intellectual cog¬ 
wheels? When that process has spread over the 
entire nation (as it will if it is demonstrated to 
‘pay’), what kind of a nation will we be at the 
end of a few generations—perhaps a single gener¬ 
ation? A nation of autocrats with a few mill¬ 
ionaire leaders and industrial kings—millions of 
workaday sheep with a handful of exploiting 



27 


shepherds? What kind of national objective was 
that? Where would it lead?” He jacked himself 
up savagely. He was not going to condemn Eben 
Lewis without giving him and his methods a try¬ 
out. 



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CHAPTER III 
THE GULF 


True to her promise Mother Mulvaney lost 
no time in telling Milton all that had occurred 
in the kitchen that morning. As a result Esmond 
found himself impatiently awaiting Miss Williams 
who had welcomed his suggestion at the dinner 
table that the two ‘visit’ in the parlor in the eve¬ 
ning. 

Against the somber old parlor furnishings of 
the Boon Street house Orma’ fresh young beauty, 
her simple and tastv dress, her ease and perfect 
poise, confused Esmond, although strangely 
enough, they seemed to revive in him the old 
inspiration to ‘carry on’,---the feeling that his lone 
fight against odds was not a hopeless thing, nour¬ 
ished only by sentimentalism. For weeks he had 
looked upon Miss Williams from afar as the per¬ 
sonification of inspiration and success. He had 
never regarded her in a personal way, and for 
some reason had never really become acquainted 
with her beyond the usual dinner table courtesies. 
As she advanced to take the chair he offered her 
he was conscious of a vague fear that he might 
discover her to be less than his fancy had pictured, 
For Esmond loved his illusions. They were meat 
and drink to him, and when any of them were 
shattered he would sink into despair and des¬ 
pondency, from which condition he would only be 



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29 


able to raise himself by dwelling anew on the 
illusions still remaining with him. Of the few 
to which he still held fast his conception of 
American womanhood was foremost. 

“I’m afraid I took rather a mean advantage of 
you this morning,” Orma began. “We talked 
about you for nearly an hour. Dear old Mother 
Mulvaney just had to tell me things, and what 
she said was so interesting I wouldn’t have stop¬ 
ped her for anything.” 

“What in the world did she say—that I was 
a mechanic’s helper in the Eben Lewis works?” 

“Oh that was a small part of what she told 
me. As it happens I—I know the Lewis organi¬ 
zation very well. Among other things she told 
me how she lost her place in Oklahoma and how 
you appeared on the scene and helped her, and 
how you had to contend with those bankers and 
financiers. It was that that interested me so 
greatly. It made me feel that after all the days 
of chivalry are not yet gone—that the spirit of 
knighthood is not lost entirely.” 

“I fear, for all the good I did, I made rather 
a poor kind of knight,” said Esmond smiling 
grimly. “I’m afraid the compliment is not really 
merited—unless you have in mind our old friend 
Don Quixote. But I’m sorry Mother Mulvaney 
bothered you with our troubles. Poor old 
Mother Mulvaney! She had had a hard row to 
hoe in the world.” 


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“You must have had a time of it,” Orma said 
sympathetically. “And from what Mother Mul- 
vaney says your troubles are far from being 
ended yet. I couldn’t help being almost per¬ 
sonally interested because of the things that have 
happened, and because you have in a manner 
come to Eben Lewis for aid. Mother Mulvaney 
mentioned that you read in the Pendulum some 
expressions on the banking situation of the coun¬ 
try that interested you. I would very much like 
to hear more about it—if you care to tell me.” 

Esmond accepted the invitation with mixed 
feelings. He had suddenly recollected a remark 
made at the boarding house table in Orma’s ab¬ 
sence to the effect that she had come to reside 
there because her writing required the cultivation 
of atmosphere—that she had to mingle with all 
sorts and conditions of people. He had noted 
too that most of the boarders appeared to resent 
this, to dislike the implication that they were in¬ 
teresting because they were common folks or in 
any sense objects of study. Observing his hesi¬ 
tancy Orma hastened to add: “Of course don’t 
mistake my interest in the matter for mere cur¬ 
iosity or impertinence of any kind.” 

“No, no,” said Esmond feeling rather mean. 
“On the contrary I appreciate the opportunity 
very much, chiefly because you are on the staff 
of the Pendulum, and it was the Pendulum that 
brought me to New York.” 























3 1 


Various emotions struggled with Orma as she 
heard this confession. First her womanly in¬ 
stinct, for no reason in particular and certainly 
for none that she herself would have admitted, 
moved her to think that Esmond’s motive in 
desiring to tell her the story should have been 
because he wanted to talk to her and impress her. 
The frank statement that he was interested in 
her only because of her connection with the Pen¬ 
dulum left her slightly puqued, and tended to dis¬ 
sipate to some extent the romantic glamor with 
which her fancy had surrounded him. Still he 
was interested in her, even if only in her work 
on the Pendulum. That in itself was something. 
“It’s nice to know that we are fighting the same 
battle,” she said smiling. “I will be delighted 
to hear the story.” 

“It isn’t necessary to explain why I am inter¬ 
ested in Mother Mulvaney,” Esmond began, as 
Orma drew her chair closer and adjusted the 
ponderous, old-fashioned shade on the table lamp. 
“Apparently she has already told you that. In 
any case it really has nothing to do with the 
trouble in Oklahoma.” 

“Alder Valley is just a farming section. There 
are three banks, several stores, and a railroad. 
The farms about have never been very pros¬ 
perous. They raise broom corn mostly, at least 
all the farms near Mulvaney’s do. Others run 
dairies. The Mulvaneys had forty acres right at 



3 2 


the head of the Valley. The home place, a 
pretty old vine-covered house, sits up on a hill, 
and you can see for miles down the valley from 
the w T ide porch. The first time I ever saw 
Mother Mulvaney she was sitting on that porch 
turning an old-fashioned churn.” 

As Orma listened to this description she 
chanced to glance up, and a slight thrill went 
through her as she caught the cold glint in Es- 
Esmond’s eyes and the cynical lines about his 
mouth. In spite of the commonplace and sordid 
nature of the facts the whole thing from begin¬ 
ning to end was strangely romantic. 

“As Mother Mulvaney probably told you,” 
Esmond continued, “she mortgaged the place 
under circumstances that would make the thing 
highway robbery in most states. The banks there 
have no connection with the Federal Reserve— 
they are a power in themselves, and the bankers 
sitting in the back offices of these places are 
actually controlling the destiny, the success or 
failure, of hundreds of families. I have never 
found out why they plotted the downfall of 
Mother Mulvaney, but there is a reason some¬ 
where, and some day we will discover it. 

“But don’t they have banking laws in Okla¬ 
homa?” Orma exclaimed as Esmond finished his 
narration. 

“Yes, they have banking laws. One of them 
for instance is that only a certain rate of in- 




33 


terest—-8 percent-can be charged. Yet even the 
United States Comptroller of Currency claims 
the average interest paid by the farmers is 15 
percent. Right near Mother Mulvaney’s one 
case in particular proves how ineffective the bank¬ 
ing law is. In this case a family mortgaged 
its farm in order to buy a team of horses 
and implements for preparing the ground. The 
note came due in 90 days. When they renewed 
it they paid a huge bonus and signed up again 
for another 90 days. What could the farmer do? 
He had to wait until the crop came in before he 
could repay his mortgage. Well the thing went 
on until finally when the crop matured they were 
unable to pay even the interest, let alone the prin¬ 
cipal. The bankers swooped down and took the 
place. The father went out as a laborer, but 
the blow of losing his home was too much for 
him. He died just before we left Oklahoma.” 

“And what became of his family?” 

“Oh the neighbors took up a collection and 
tried to raise enough to send the mother and her 
three little children back to Louisiana, I think, 
where she had relatives.” 

“The fact of the matter is the bankers, 
especially in Alder Valley, seem to be able to do 
most anything under the law. You see they are 
not connected with the Federal Reserve System. 
They are small state banks which start up with a 
capital of $10,000 or less, and they immediately 


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34 


start loaning money on first mortgages. Of 
course they don’t actually have to hand out the 
cash when they loan money—as a matter of fact 
they refuse to loan money unless the farmer 
agrees to keep it on deposit in the bank. I think 
that is the strangest part of the system. A farmer 
goes in and asks for a loan. The banker says; 
“What are you going to do with the money?” The 
farmer says he is going to pay his grocer, im¬ 
plement dealer, etc. The banker then takes a 
first mortgage and gives the farmer a credit slip 
—no money, mind you—and then takes the mort¬ 
gage and discounts it at some large bank outside 
the county. The result is when the note comes 
due the bankers can save their own faces by 
claiming that the bankers higher up are de¬ 
manding payment. The whole thing is wrong, 
and of course it could not happen if the small 
state banks were regulated through one central 
banking system.” 

“Of course I think Mother Mulvaney’s place 
can be recovered if we can just bring sufficient 
pressure to bear on the local bankers on the 
ground that they secured the mortgage in the 
first place through misrepresentation and fraud, 
also that they charged a usurious rate of interest. 
I couldn’t do a thing in Alder Valley because 
most of the people were afraid to oppose the 
bankers. Mother Mulvaney’s trouble is simply 
typical, and I am hoping, while waiting for cer- 



> 










35 


tain opportunities to develop, to be able to do 
something which will bring about a change in the 
entire banking methods of the country. That’s 
why I became so much interested in what Eben 
Lewis had to say regarding banking in the Pen¬ 
dulum.” 

Orma was deeply affected by what Esmond had 
just told her. “And how do you propose to 
fight this thing, if I may ask?” she queried. “I 
presume you have some plan?” 

“You bet I have,” Esmond cried enthusiasti¬ 
cally. “1 have devoted more than a year to study 
and research on the subject, and I have embodied 
the results in a book. If you just knew what it 
has meant to write that book—the nights I have 
spent writing and tearing up, and writing and 
tearing up again. But it is ready and in book 
form at last, and my dream is to have it pub¬ 
lished. I have covered the banking situation in 
all its details, and I now have the complete 
manuscript ready—in fact it has already been 
submitted to, and rejected by, two different pub¬ 
lishers.” 

Orma’s interest deepened. “Perhaps there 
really is something that I might be able to do to 
help you,” she exclaimed. “I know a great many 
publishers. Even though I had a terrible time 
getting my work started, I might be able to sug¬ 
gest which particular editors would be more 
charitable with your work than the ones you have 
sent your manuscript to.” 








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“I would indeed appreciate such help,” said 
Esmond gratefully. “I had really given up hope 
for a while. I sent the manuscript to Eben Lewis, 
for 1 knew he would be interested in it, and I be¬ 
lieved he would support the remedy I explained 11 . 
But it came back without comment. I didn’t let 
that discourage me, though. I decided to reach 
Eben Lewis another way.” 

This, Orma assumed, explained his taking a 
job as a mechanic’s helper in the Lewis works. 

“But now, please,” Esmond pleaded, “I have 
done all the talking—and it seems I have been 
talking about nothing but myself. Won’t you 
tell me about your work on the Pendulum?” 

“Well my work, I imagine, started something 
like yours. It was during the war. I was taking 
a post-graduate course at Columbia and I wanted 
to do something, anything, to help. You know 
the feeling. Of course I couldn’t be a nurse.” 
Orma very modestly refrained from explaining 
that the age limit had interfered—perhaps because 
she instinctively felt that Esmond needed no ex* 
planation. “So I decided to devote my time to 
fighting the enemies at home.” 

“Secret Service?” Esmond hazarded. 

“No, no. I could never have done that,” Orma 
declared. “And even if I could, I doubt if it 
would have done much good. I was studying 
political economy at the university. You would 
never suspect it of me, would you?” 












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Orma asked the question lightly and expected 
no answer. Behind the fresh, feminine charm 
however, Esmond from the very start had ob¬ 
served the characteristics that bespoke intellec¬ 
tual attainment; had noted the thoughtful pose, 
the swift flashes of enthusiasm that would sweep 
over the expressive face; had seen the eyes, 
naturally alluring and wishful, light up with the 
quick fire of inspiration and determination. He 
had seen that light in the eyes of enthusiasts be¬ 
fore, in the eyes of men on the field of battle, on 
the faces of women who had forsaken all to fol¬ 
low a vision, even if only that of some fantistic 
cult or false prophet. 

“I believe you would be very well suited to 
such a subject,” he assured her. 

“Well, however that may be,” Orma continued 
“I had hardly made up my mind to do war work 
when an opportunity came to study the internal 
problems of our own country, the problems at¬ 
tending the so-called ‘Melting Pot’. And the 
more I got into the work the more I became con¬ 
vinced that the worst enemies we have are some 
of those very races of people that make up the 
citizenship of America!” 

“You mean individuals, surely not races?” 
Esmond prompted. 

“No, I mean races. America seems to be 
wholly unaware of one of the gravest dangers 
it has ever faced. I see it all quite plainly, just 














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38 


as you see the menace of our defective banking 
system. Only I had no inkling of how to use 
my knowledge—how really to render the service 
I felt it my duty to give.*’ 

“Then Professor Ayers recommended me to 
the editor of the Pendulum. The editor knew 
of my work and had read some of the papers I 
had written for Professor Ayers. He gave me 
a position at once. I have been with the paper 
over two years now, and have finally decided to 
dedicate my career to the magnificent and won¬ 
derful work of Eben Lewis—America’s greatest 
citizen!” Once more her alluring eyes shone 
with the fire of hero worship, the holy fire of 
the crusader. “Eben Lewis is going to launch a 
gigantic campaign against such races, creeds, and 
organizations as he thinks are a menace to our 
country.” 

As Esmond watched Orma’s face he was re¬ 
minded of the time when he-had stood in the 
Champ Elysee Park in Paris, and had suddenly 
looked up and become aware of the perfectly 
formed limbs of a girl astride upon a huge iron 
horse. There had been a moment of confusion, 
and then he had discovered that he was looking 
up at the statue of Joan of Arc. 

He was well aware of the impending campaign 
of which Orma spoke, but it was a distinct shock 
to him to learn that Orma herself was to be in 
the think of it. There came flooding in upon 



4 


39 


him suddenly the memory of his companions in 
arms, his fighting ‘buddies’—Italians, Jews, and all 
the medley of races that had made the great 
American Army. He sickened to think of the 
injustice that would be meted out to such men, 
men without any other country than this, the one 
they had helped to defend, if ideas as radical as 
Orma’s were really to be sponsored by men as 
powerful as Lewis. He thought of those others 
too, those men of other races and nationalities, 
who had laid down their lives to save the country 
of their adoption, this great United States. Ap¬ 
parently they had died in vain. What, after all, 
did it matter what race or country or tribe or 
clan a man or his forebears originally came from, 
once the man had become an American and had 
taken up arms to defend her? David Church had 
stolen the ‘United States’ from Michael Mul- 
vaney while Mulvaney was giving his life to de¬ 
fend it three thousand miles away. That was bad 
enough in all conscience. But was it worse than 
this thing that Eben Lewis was now about to per¬ 
petrate, to deprive the people of alien races, of a 
particular alien race, of an equal opportunity in 
the country of their adoption, or in many cases of 
their birth—the country they rightly regarded as 
their own? The thing seemed preposterous. 

“Surely you don’t mean, Miss Williams,” he 
demanded, “that Eben Lewis intends to kindle 
the fire of racial hatred in the United States? 






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What good purpose can be served by that? Is it 
not enough that he should make machines of 
humans, slaves of so many of our citizens, with¬ 
out raising the cry of race, or interfering with the 
beliefs, the hopes, the creeds, or the faith of any 
section of this composite nation?” 

“Why need it be that?” Orma protested. 
“Surely if any race or any creed is a menace to 
the majority of the people, the people have an 
inherent right to protest and protect themselves?” 

“Oh yes,” Esmond replied. “But remember 
there is a vast difference between the majority of 
the people protesting against a real grievance, 
and one man conducting propaganda, inflaming 
people against an imaginary evil. It is this that 
brings on hatred, strikes, riots, and war.” 

For a moment it seemed as if the personal in¬ 
terest that had grown up between the two had 
faded into insignificance before the conflict of 
emotions that greeted the discussion of the pend¬ 
ing anti-racila campaign. To Orma it appeared 
that Esmond was unusually sensitive regarding a 
subject of which he had heard so little. Yet if 
she could but have known the depth of Esmond’s 
feelings in this matter, how much more he really 
knew of the consequences that might attend such 
a campaign; if she could have seen what he had 
seen, she would have understood why this simple 
discussion had kindled a spark and ignited a fire 
that had long been smoldering in his breast. Al- 


















































































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41 


though nothing further was said at the moment, 
both subconsciously accepted the issue that had so 
unexpectedly and suddenly been thrust upon them, 
and recognized the gulf that had opened between 
them, which must either be bridged or else al¬ 
lowed to widen and deepen until they would be 
as far apart as though they had never met. For 
the time being, however, Orma the crusader ac¬ 
cepted Esmond’s good words as a minister might 
listen to the arguments of an honest unbeliever; 
give him time and he will be won over. Orma 
had not nourished her firm conviction, fought for 
it and finally arrived at the brink of success, with¬ 
out having learned to be tactful and diplomatic. 

“Perhaps,” she replied, “we are not so far 
apart in our ideas as you imagine. Suppose we 
don’t talk about it any more-right now. The 
first article—the real launching of the campaign 
—will start in about a few weeks. After you 
have read the article and thought it over, perhaps 
we can come nearer seeing the matter in the 
same light.” 

“Then—then the campaign really is going to 
start?” Esmond’s voice was hollow and weak. 
To Orma he seemed strangely agitated over a 
matter concerning which he was really 
comparatively ignorant. She regarded him with a 
new interest. There was something hidden, some¬ 
thing beneath the suggestion of cynical lines on 
his face, lines that were still in the formative 
stage, that fascinated her. A sacrilegious im¬ 
pulse to forget for an instant the Pendulum and 



42 


what she considered her life work, and concen¬ 
trate for the present on Esmond, the man, seized 
her. But she dismissed it instantly from her 
mind. 

“Yes, it is going to start,” she answered. “And 
I hope very much that you will come to see the 
movement as I do.” 

“Would it not be better to say ‘as Eben Lewis 
sees it’ ?” 

“Why—why” Orma hesitated. “Certainly, it’s 
the same thing, isn’t it?” 

“Is it?” Esmond asked. 

Orma did not answer. Instead she again re¬ 
minded Esmond of his promised manuscript. 
Then they gossiped for a time about their fellow 
boarders, and soon after parted for the night. 

Alone in her room Orma tried to dismiss the 
subject of the evening’s discussion, and concen¬ 
trate on plans for the next day—a practice she 
had followed for years. But tonight her mind 
refused to concentrate; instead and in spite of her 
every effort, she found herself battling with an 
apprehension that something had happened to her 
plans. She tried to reason the matter out, to con¬ 
vince herself that nothing out of the ordinary had 
occurred. But try as she would her thoughts 
sooner or later took the form of Esmond—Es¬ 
mond the man. 





CHAPTER IV 

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 


Early breakfasts and late dinners had become 
regular occurrences at the Mulvaney establishment 
after the memorable first visit between Orma 
and Milton Esmond. Mother Mulvaney fell 
quite in love with the new scheme of things, and 
displayed a motherly interest that frequently em¬ 
barrassed her two favorite boarders. 

From the start Orma tri’ed hard to win Es¬ 
mond to her point of view regarding the im¬ 
pending anti-racial campaign. She was patient 
and clever, and always tempered her discussions 
with a show of genuine interest in Esmond’s own 
ambitious ideals. Nevertheless, she frankly 
questioned his chances of success. She dwelt at 
length on the tremendous power and influence 
wielded by Eben Lewis, and attempted time and 
again to prove that banks were merely the tools 
of a powerful race of grasping money makers 
in America, and with a vigorous defamation and 
discrediting of this race, she urged, would vanish 
the strangle hold of which Esmond so bitterly 
complained. 

One evening when dinner was unusually late 
Esmond found time to discard his working 
clothes, and appeared at the table carefully 
groomed. Earl Rogers was quick to notice this. 
“Stepping out tonight?” he asked by way of 
greeting, glancing wisely from Esmond to Orma 
who also presented a very spruce appearance. 














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44 


“How are things going at the Eben Lewis 
works?” Dr. Beeman asked before Esmond had 
a chance to counter the query of Rogers. 

Miss Wescott apparently had a personal in¬ 
terest in the question. “All the men there are 
being overpaid, of course,” she declared. “The 
time has come in this country when the profes¬ 
sional person gets far less than even the com¬ 
monest laborer,’’---looking hard at Esmond. 

“Oh well, what’s the difference?” Earl de¬ 
manded. “I claim any man in this country, or 
woman, either,” (to Miss Wescott) “can get just 
exactly as much as they are worth.” 

Dr. Beeman lowered his fork and looked 
sternly at Rogers. “That being the case,” he said, 
“it becomes very difficult to understand how 
some people succeed in paying their board.” 

The ever buoyant Earl Rogers warded off this 
pointed remark with the ease and grace of a 
natural-born promoter. “Nothing personal, of 
course, Doctor. You’re merely interested from 
a psychological point of view, I presume?” 

Orma, fearing that the conversation would lead 
to the embarrassment of Esmond, made several 
attempts to lead it into a different channel from 
the one Rogers had started. “Or psychopathical 
perhaps,” she put. 

“Now I believe things are getting personal,” Earl 
complained. “However, just to satisfy all of you, 
you may he interested to know that my oil well 
in Pennsylvania is about to come in. The en¬ 
gineers report that we can expect at least 5000 
























* 














45 


barrels per day production from the very start.” 

Earl’s words affected his various hearers 
singularly. Dr. Beeman hastened to tussle with 
a French roll, tearing it in two viciously, without 
comment. Orma seemed pleased at the news, 
but did not abandon her joking attitude. “When 
the ‘just about’ becomes ‘has’, ” she said, “I’ll be 
the first to congratulate you, Earl. It will be 
simply wonderful.” 

Miss Wescott was plainly disturbed. “Well,” 
she remarked, “there’s no telling what may hap¬ 
pen these days. I see they have just put another 
broker in jail for swindling the public with stocks 
and bonds. Money seems to be everything these 
days—absolutely everything.” 

Just then Mother Mulvaney approached the 
table in order to gather up dishes. “If money 
is everything, Earl replied, “then we’re just about 
nothing, aren’t we, Mother?” 

“Sure an’ money’s only good for spending, an’ 
if I could have been gettin’ the price for my 
potatoes an’ poultry an’ the likes, back in Alder 
Valley, that I am payin’ for the stuff they’re 
sellin’ on the streets here, I’d be havin’ money 
the rest of me life.” She swept the dishes noisily 
on to the tray and departed. 

“Poor old Mother Mulvaney,” Dr. Beeman re¬ 
marked as soon as she left the room. “I guess 
she’s having a hard time of it keeping up the 
house, isn’t she Mr. Esmond?” 

“Yes. They have raised her rent for one 
thing, and the poor old soul never learned how to 










4 6 


cook for city people. She is used to feeding 
farm hands, and never will learn that people 
don’t eat so much in the city.” 

Miss Wescott raised her eyebrows at this, but 
said nothing. 

“Money, money! Thank the Lord I’ll soon 
have enough to go around, and believe me after 
all the home cooking I’ve had here I’ll pay 
Mother Mulvaney three times what she’s getting 
now, if that will help any,” the exuberant Rogers 
exclaimed. 

Soon the conversation drifted into other chan¬ 
nels, and one by one the company left the table, 
leaving Esmond and Orma discussing work at 
the Lewis factory. It was plain to Orma from 
Esmond’s remarks that his attitude toward Eben 
Lewis was changing. It was true enough. As the 
dull and monotonous days at the factory grew 
into weeks, he was coming to loathe the deadly 
sameness with an intense hatred. In spite of him¬ 
self, he was alarmed to discover at the same time, 
that this dislike of the work was gradually 
coming to include his fellow workers also; those 
dull, dumb creatures who did not seem to mind 
being converted into machines in the least. At last 
he was beginning to wonder just what sort of a 
man Eben Lewis really was. And Professor Ayers, 
too—Eben’s advisor. Who and what was he? 
The knowledge, deep down in his heart, that it 
was his growing regard for Orma that was at 
least partly responsible for this questioning pro¬ 
cess, did not add to his happiness. 



47 


Fate had recently furnished him with an in¬ 
sight into one characteristic of Lewis’ with 
which he had not previously been familiar. There 
had been a rumor through the plant that the 
railroads might delay delivery of coal shipments 
to the Lewis works, owing to strike conditions. 
In the next issue of the Pendulum, Lewis boldly 
declared that unless the railroads delivered coal 
he would close down his plants and force into 
idleness close on to a quarter of a million men. 
The coal deliveries did not actually stop, but the 
threat and all that it implied appalled Esmond, 
and brought home to him very forcibly the 
danger of putting such tremendous power into the 
hands of one man. 

The more Esmond analyzed and studied the 
situation, the more he became convinced that 
Eben Lewis was purely and simply a product of 
the abnormal tendency of the times, a man who 
had been taken hold of by circumstances not al¬ 
together of his own shaping and carried to a 
pinnacle of wealth and power that would have 
made wiser heads than his reel. And when to 
this was added ambition of a satanic order, the 
bounds whereof no man knew, it seemed to be 
apparent enough that the chances of such an in¬ 
dustrial Napoleon becoming a menace to the com¬ 
munity were at least equal to those of his being 
a benefactor. 

Once this idea became firmly implanted in his 
mind Esmond felt his conviction growing that 
the interest Lewis displayed in matters like the 


































* 











* 








48 


anti-racial campaign emanated chiefly from his 
growing mania for power. So far he had re¬ 
frained from mentioning this to Orma, partly 
because he feared that by doing so he would 
widen the breach between them, and partly be¬ 
cause he hoped she might discover the thing for 
herself. Yet three weeks had elapsed since they 
had discussed the impending campaign, and still 
there was no evidence of its being launched in 
the Pendulum. 

Orma was ever present in Esmond’s thoughts, 
and gradually, as he came to depend more and 
more upon her, she began to cause him more un¬ 
rest and confusion than his Alder Valley trouble. 
He noticed her ever lowering spirits and her in¬ 
creasing petulance and irritability. He observed 
too a careworn and worried look on her face, and 
hoped all these signs were evidence of a growing 
desire on Orma’s part to thoroughly probe Eben 
Lewis’ motives, and to reconsider the career she 
had chosen for herself. 

They were alone in the parlor one evening 
when Orma suddenly plunged into the subject 
that each knew was uppermost in the mind of the 
other. -“The campaign has been postponed—in¬ 
definitely,” she announced. “And Professor 
Ayers himself is the one who has brought this 
about.” 

Esmond could not conceal the surge of his 
emotions. “Why—didn’t you say it was Profes- 














































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49 

sor Ayers who got you started with the Pendu¬ 
lum?” he asked. 

“Yes—that’s just the trouble. I have found 
that Professor Ayers is the constant advisor and 
the real head of the anti-racial campaign for 
Eben Lewis. Eben Lewis always has experts on 
his staff, you know. So far all we have written 
on the subject has been ‘feelers’ as Professor 
Ayers calls them. But the response was so un¬ 
satisfactory that Eben Lewis is going to make the 
campaign one of his main bids for—for—public 
support. He has postponed the opening.” 

“And why does he want public support?” Es¬ 
mond demanded. 

“I really think and hope,” Orma replied, “that 
Eben Lewis has ambition to become the Governor 
of the state.” 

“At least,” said Esmond dryly. 

“Then you already know?” said Orma with a 
trace of anxiety. “At least what?” 

“At least the Governorship of the state,” re¬ 
plied Esmond with a smile. “I think it highly 
probable he has in mind an office of a much 
more exalted order—more in keeping with his 
towering ambition. Yet I believe that the reali¬ 
zation of either ambition would be in the nature 
of a calamity.” 

“Milton Esmond, I cannot understand you at 
all! You came to New York because you ad¬ 
mired the fearless and courageous stand Eben 
























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would transfer the control from the few to the 
community-provided he is allowed to maintain 
his own grip on the community!” 

“You are very, very unfair,” Orma protested. 
“And I can prove it. Take the anti-racial cam¬ 
paign for example. True, I criticised Eben Lewis 
for delaying it, but I did not tell you why he 
did so. Now, I will. He is first going to send 
a commission to Europe. Professor Ayers will 
head it. The commission will visit every country 
and make actual reports on the conditions there. 
Not one thing will be said or done in this coun¬ 
try that will not have as its foundation conditions 
we find in Europe.” 

A queer expression came into Esmond’s eyes. 
“We?” he queried. 

“Yes,” Orma replied. “I am going with the 
others. It is the greatest honor I have ever 
had. I hope I will be worthy of so great 

a responsibility. Professor Ayers refused to go 
without me.” 

Orma leaving for Europe! Already Esmond 
regretted his bitter denunciation of Eben Lewis. 
What good had it done? Simply lowered him in 
her estimation. Even now he could see her 
drifting further and further away, widening the 
chasm between them. A feeling of intense lone¬ 
liness overwhelmed him suddenly. “And—when 
do you leave?” His voice was thin and strained. 

“Professor Ayers will tell me tomorrow—but 
































. 


50 


Lewis took on the banking question. You have 
been here less than six months, and yet you seem 
to have nothing but contempt for the man.” 

“For which I have very definite and specific 
reasons,” said Esmond coldly. “First, because 
he is the exponent and the champion of highly 
specialized labor, which means, in plain English, 
nothing less than making machines of hundreds 
of thousands of laborers, thus completely de 
stroying their usefulness both to themselves and 
to their country. Secondly, because it is unsafe 
for any country to have one citizen all powerful. 
Eben Lewis has enormous interests all over this 
land, and because as the result of the particular 
system he has adopted, his workers are shorn of 
all initiative and self-reliance and made depend¬ 
ent upon him alone, he has created for him¬ 
self what is virtually the position of a Czar in 
free America. And thirdly because, in his lust 
for power, he forgets the common weal and 
exalts his own personal feelings and desires.” 

In spite of the shocked and pained expression 
that came over Orma’s countenance Esmond con¬ 
tinued his bitter assault. “I might as well tell 
you, Miss Williams, that I have no longer any 
desire to see Eben Lewis become interested in 
the banking situation. The second gravest evil 
with the system now is that the private control 
of the medium of exchange subjects the whole 
country to the will of the few. Eben Lewis 

















> 








































































. 


















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52 


I think it will be soon.” Orma spoke auto¬ 
matically, gazing at the floor. She was fighting 
desperately to conquer a persistent impulse to 
answer the silent appeal in Esmond’s eyes. What 
a peculiar complex he was! For weeks Orma 
had felt the strange influence his presence had 
had on her. At times she had longed to acknow¬ 
ledge his power and surrender to it. But on each 
occasion she had conquered the temptation, and 
completed the victory by presenting a bold, im¬ 
personal front that revealed her to Esmond only 
as an economist and student almost fanatically 
interested in her life work. Had Esmond but 
yielded an inch in his stubborn determination to 
denounce her work and her mission, she would 
have lost control of her impulses and would have 
returned the hungry appeal that so often replaced 
the cynical hatred in his eyes. 

“Will you do me one favor?” Esmond asked. 

“I really have wanted to—many times,” she re¬ 
plied, deep feeling coming into her voice in spite 
of herself. “But it seems I am unable to. What 
can I do?” 

“In Europe,” Esmond answered, “you will ob¬ 
serve many instances where one man controls the 
destiny of millions. You will find these power¬ 
ful leaders to be merely human. When you see 
how they play with the power they have—think 
of Eben Lewis!” 

Again the woman in Orma rebelled. A final 










- 









53 


favor—and not one word of herself! Not a 
hope that she would remember him! He hadn’t 
even asked when she might rturn. 

“I will remember what you say,” she said 
calmly. “And will try to be fair always. I had 
hoped you would ask me about your book ‘The 
Strangle Hold’. You probably think I have 
forgotten it entirely.” 

“Indeed 1 knew you would not forget it,” 
Esmond assured her. “I know how very busy 
you have been. I am satisfied to leave it with 
you.” Esmond, the man, clung to the slender 
hope that all was not over between them. The 
manuscript would still furnish an excuse for 
meetings later on. 

Further discussion just then was interrupted 
by Mother Mulvaney who came rushing breath¬ 
lessly up the stairway. “Esmond, me boy, a 
man has been after leaving a telegram for ye. 
Sure an’ I told him I wasn’t the one to come 
disturbing ye, and the fool was very nearly tak¬ 
ing it back again. So I made him wait till I fetched 
you.” 

Esmond hastened off to deal with the messen¬ 
ger, and presently returned to the parlor with 
the telegram in his hand. “Oklahoma!” he ex¬ 
claimed excitedly, motioning Mother Mulvaney 
to his side. “From the lawyer!” 

“Sure an’ don’t keep us waiting all day,” cried 










' 




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' 








. 





























54 

Mother Mulvaney catching his excitement. “Read 
it, me boy. Read it!” 

Orma made to withdraw from the room, but 
Esmond in his eagerness, grasped her by the arm 
and drew her over beside himself and Mother 
Mulvaney. “Listen to this,” he exclaimed: 

“Believe a little two-fisted action out here can 
bust the Mulvaney farm grab. Can you come? 
John Grant.” 

“Two fists is it they’re wantin’?” cried Mother 
Mulvaney. “I’m thinkin’ I’d better be goin’ out 
there meself.” 

Then Esmond realized with a sudden over¬ 
whelming surge of emotion that his hand still 
grasped the warm and tender arm of the girl 
who stood beside him. While his sense of 
propriety warned him that the proper thing to 
do was to release it immediately and offer a per¬ 
functory apology, yet at the same time the 
thought flashed through his mind that Orma her¬ 
self should be offering some resistance. But she 
made no movement to do so, and as her body 
swayed softly against him he tightened his grip 
hungrily and drew her towards him. Apparently 
interested only in the telegram Orma pressed 
nearer for a better view of the missive that 
trembled violently in Esmond’s free hand. The 
fluttering of the paper brought them to them¬ 
selves with a start, and each hastened to apolo¬ 
gize in embarrassed tones for the unavoidable 






. 

. 

. .. 





55 

contact, at the same time resuming their seats in 
some confusion. 

“The news excited me—I didn’t seem to know 
what I was doing for the moment,” Esmond 
mumbled. But his eyes were still fixed on her 
face. 

For a fraction of a second it seemed as if 
Orma would be woman enough to pout petu¬ 
lantly and raise her eyes coyly to his. Instead; 
“I was really out in Oklahoma for the time be¬ 
ing,” was what she said, addressing the remark 
to Mother Mulvaney. 







CHAPTER V 


ALDER VALLEY 

Esmond felt that he should make the trip 
to Alder Valley alone, and as quietly as possible. 
He had many reasons for his decision, and 
needed them all to convince old Mother Mul- 
vaney that she should stay on in New York until 
such time as he might send her word that it 
was worth while following him out. He frankly 
doubted the wisdom of his own departure, and 
had it not been for his utter failure in New 
York, the shattering of his illusions concerning 
Eben Lewis and the apparent waste of effort he 
had expended on his book, he would not have em¬ 
barked again upon what had once been a hope¬ 
less task—the single-handed fight against a power¬ 
ful ring of local bankers. 















































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57 


Esmond was unwilling to admit that there was 
another consideration prompting him to leave, 
that out-weighed all others. Even as he con¬ 
sidered the trip and all it involved, his thoughts 
kept turning again to Orma Williams. The fact 
that he was spending practically his last dollar 
for transportation did not serve to banish her 
from his mental vision. He had seen her only once 
since the night they had received the telegram in 
the parlor and that meeting had been the fare¬ 
well parting. Orma had seemed to him more 
enthusiastic than ever concerning her trip, which 
commenced a full week before Esmond’s leaving, 
but of course Esmond could not know that her 
enthusiasm was forced and that she had pur¬ 
posely avoided a subsequent meeting because she 
could not trust herself to conceal her true 
emotions any longer. But Esmond had accepted 
her attitude as a final challenge. She knew his 
feelings towards her trip and she had decided 
against him. She had, so to speak, left him 
alone, discouraged and unconsciously seeking an 
outlet for the pent-up emotions that seemed to 
stifle him. This explained his willingness to re- 




















































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58 

turn to Alder Valley, regardless of what his sober 
judgment prompted him to expect there. 

Esmond was met at Alder Valley Station early 
Sunday morning by John Grant, the lawyer, who 
had been retained during the previous fight over 
the Mulvaney farm, and the two greeted one 
another with great heartiness. Esmond was 
genuinely glad to see Grant, for he had felt much 
alone since Orma’s departure. Grant, too, 
seemed as full of admiration for Esmond as ever. 
He was a fiery young lawyer, still full of the en¬ 
thusiasm of service, and whose natural desire to 
give help when needed, had not yet been dashed 
by bitter experience, nor his optimism dimmed by 
human ingratitude and weakness. 

In the quiet little depot dining room, after en¬ 
quiring at length how Esmond and Mother Mul¬ 
vaney had fared in the East, Grant gave Esmond 
the details that led to the forwarding of the tele¬ 
gram. “I have found recently,” he explained, 
“that the Mulvaney grab was merely one of a 
series that have recently become public. I have 
the facts, but as yet not the motives. It is only 
the broom corn belt that seems to be affected— 
















































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59 

a strip of about five miles down the valley from 
the old Mulvaney place.” 

“Who seems to be at the bottom of it all, 
and how are they operating?” Esmond asked. 

“David Church of the Bank of Alder Valley, 
Silas Turner of the First State Bank, and Sam 
Applegate of the Alder Trust Company.” At 
the mention of these names Esmond’s eyes nar¬ 
rowed. “Their game is not a new one,” Grant 
went on. “Remember last year—when broom 
corn was a drug on the market?” 

Esmond nodded. He remembered it well, for 
it was the failure to market this very crop that 
contributed in part to the loss of Mother Mul- 
vaney’s farm. 

“You remember that the banks for some 
reason or other stepped in and carried the 
farmers ?” 

Esmond nodded again. 

“Well, the poor devils have had to renew 
their notes three times, and every time the in¬ 
terest has been boosted. It’s costing them an 
average of 50 percent right now to carry the 
loans!” 

The cynical lines on Esmond’s face deepened. 
“And yet when I put in my book ‘The Strangle 
Hold’ that such a thing was possible under the 
banking laws of the state, one publisher said it 
was preposterous,” he remarked. “Perhaps they 
will believe it now, for even Mr. Wilson, Comp- 


























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6o 


troller of Currency at Washington, D. C., has 
publicly stated such practices are going on. And 
what is more,” continued Esmond after a pause, 
“I will be so bold as to say that the real 
bankers of the country know it to be true, but 
they seem to be just as powerless to curb the 
small rural banks as the state legislature.” 

He stopped again for a few moments, and then 
went on: “And as far as I can figure they al¬ 
ways will be powerless so long as local bank 
credit, the real basis of prosperity, is completely 
controlled by some petty committee sitting in 
the back office of a dinkey little bank. It’s little 
communities, Grant, just like this one, that makes 
up the United States.” 

“But you haven’t heard it all,” Grant broke in. 
“This last time when the farmers came in with 
their hats in their hands kow-towing before the 
bankers what do you think they were told?” 

“Oh God, I give up,” groaned Esmond. 

“They were told they could renew and bor¬ 
row more at the usual increase in interest, pro¬ 
viding they would use the money to plant broom 
corn again this year.” 

“Great Heavens!” ejaculated Esmond. “When 
everyone who knows anything is aware that 
broom corn won’t be worth harvesting this year 
at all!” 











*N 
















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“That’s just the point—that’s why I wired 
you.” Grant leaned over the table and pounded 
emphatically with his fist. “It means those 
bankers want that particular five miles of Alder 
Valley, and mean to get it. “It’s as easy as 
blowing soap bubbles for them to take possession 
when the notes come due again. Even if the 
crops come in twice as heavy as ever in the 
history of the Valley, and bring twice the 
market price, those farmers could never pay up. 
What I want to know is—why do they want that 
particular chunk of land?” 

Esmond pulled savagely at his cigar and 
studied the clouds of blue smoke intently. 
“Grant,” he finally declared, “they never expect 
to get back their money—from the farmers, do 
they? And they don’t want to farm that land. 
There’s something even rottener than Alder 
Valley banking going on here.” 

“Which is the reason,” said Grant rising and 
stretching himself, “that I sent for you.” 

The news of Milton Esmond’s return caused 
hardly a ripple of excitement in the quiet life of 
the little village. Some remembered his pre¬ 
vious visit, of course. Mike Mulvaney had been 
one of the few from Alder Valley to make the 
supreme sacrifice, and when Milton Esmond had 
sought out old Mother Mulvaney, the story of 




6 2 


Mike’s gallant death had spread rapidly. Milton 
had been received everywhere with open arms. 
Then came his frantic efforts to save the Mul- 
vaney farm from the foreclosure threatened by 
David Church. At first the villagers had pro¬ 
tested with Esmond, but gradually as weeks went 
on Esmond had the mortification of seeing the 
support of the people literally torn from him. 
David Church, through a dummy, bought in the 
Mulvaney place, and thus set up an example of 
what he could do to any of the other ‘borrowers’ 
should they fall from his good grace. Most of 
the borrowers of course were farmers. 

From then on Esmond had found it impossible 
either to borrow money on Mother Mulvaney’s 
behalf, or to arouse sufficient support on the 
part of the people to shame Church into less 
drastic action. Finally he had left Alder Valley 
raging against the strangle hold of the bankers, 
and declaring they would live to regret their 
actions. All three banks were included in his 
denunciation, for all, he observed, had for some 
reason or other secretly combined, so far as the 
Alder Valley Bank’s policy toward the Mulvaney 
place was concerned. 

Throughout, John Grant had stuck to Esmond, 
not alone because he had been a chum of Mike 
Mulvaney’s, but because he sypathized with 








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63 


Esmond and his views, and grew to like him as 
a personal friend. He had regretted seeing Es¬ 
mond leave the valley, and had sworn to con¬ 
tinue the fight against the bankers, and keep the 
issue alive. And in this he had not failed. 

^ * * * * s{s 

The Monday following his second arrival in 
Alder Valley found Esmond and John Grant 
hard at work. Grant because he was better known, 
started a series of personal interviews with the 
particular farmers that lived in the strip of the 
valley that seemed of such importance to the 
bankers. Esmond received the reports each 
night and made careful notes concerning each 
farmer interviewed. The work was carried on 
secretely and without any show of system or ob¬ 
vious interest. 

For several reasons Esmond ultimately deemed 
it necessary to seek some sort of employment. 
This problem caused both himself and Grant 
considerable worry for a while. Then Esmond 
conceived and put into effect what proved to be 
the most valuable idea of the campaign. He ap¬ 
plied for a position as clerk in the rambling old 
Alder Valley Hotel, the hotel that had long 
held sway as the only ‘eating and sleeping place’ 
in the valley. The proprietor, a benevolent old 
gentleman named Hogard, who ran the place 
with the aid of a grand-daughter who should have 
been attending school, considered Esmond’s pro- 












































































































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6 4 


posal with a show of interest. Business at the 
hotel was slow, very slow. The dining room was 
scarcely paying, and while Mr. Hogard frankly 
admitted a scarcity of help, he equally failed to 
see how he could pay for more. 

“You have the wrong philosophy,” Esmond 
assured him. “The more help you can scatter 
around the hotel, the more business you will get.” 

Old Hogard considered the suggestion for a 
few moments, eyeing the applicant up and down 
meantime. “I’ve been running this place for 
well nigh twenty years,” he said at last, “and 
always accordin’ to the law of the land. A 
strapping big fellow like you couldn’t make a 
living standing behind an empty register.” 

“Try me for two weeks,” Esmond begged. 
“I’ll be day clerk till ten every night for my 
room and board. I think business will pick up. 
If it doesn’t it won’t cost you much to make the 
try.” 

This was more than Mr. Hogard could resist, 
and Esmond was accordingly hired, with nothing 
to do but register the few traveling salesmen and 
farmers who for various reasons could not avoid 
stopping at the hotel. Almost at once Esmond 
began a careful checking of the names he found 
scattered through the ledger for almost a year 
back. “Nothing like knowing who your old 
guests are,” he explained to Hogard on one of 
that individual’s rare visits to the desk. “Who is 



6j 


this man?” He pointed to a name that had ap¬ 
peared with unusual regularity since about a year 
previously. “E. G. Owens—New York City,” it 
read. “Don’t know,” Hogard admitted. “Al¬ 
though I remember the man.” 

“Traveling salesman?—call on any store in 
town?—carry sample line?” Esmond persisted. 

“Nope. Don’t know what he does here. I 
don’t go bothering about who my guests are, so 
long as they’re respectful and pay their bills. But 
I know that fellow ain’t no traveling salesman— 
he don’t sell to stores. He’s most always out in 
the country, or having business with David 
Church when he comes here.” 

“I’d like to be going out into the country my¬ 
self,” Esmond answered, carefully adding the 
name of E. G. Owens to his private notes. 

“Accordin’ to some of these city birds that’s 
stoppin’ here there ain’t much difference between 
where you are now and bein’ in the country.” 
Old Hogard laughed a mirthless little “He, He, 
He!” and moved off towards the dining room. 

That night Esmond started Grant on a search 
for more information concerning E. G. Owens, 
and at the end of six days the lawyer had secured 
sufficient information to enable him to write 
a fairly intelligent request to New York City for 
complete information. After that the days went 
by uneventfully in Alder Valley, ‘Forgotten 
Valley’ as Esmond had come to call it jokingly 










































































































































































































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. » 1 























66 


since his connection with the hotel, and for a 
time nothing transpired. Day succeeded day 
with a sameness reminiscent to Esmond of the 
Eben Lewis factory itself. 

Presently came a report from New York in 
response to Grant’s request for information. 
“Littl e is known here concerning E. G. Owens,” 
the message ran, “except that he is employed 
by a large bank which deals chiefly in oil lands 
and oil securities.” 

“So that’s it, is it?” said Grant. “This little 
old valley Certainly is sleeping peacefully.” 

“It’s a trail worth following,” Esmond de¬ 
clared. “And if it proves to be the right one, 
Forgotten Valley is due for a little excitement.” 

For weeks following the receipt of the infor¬ 
mation concerning E. G. Owens, Grant and Es¬ 
mond busied themselves in running down every 
clue that presented itself, in the hope of estab¬ 
lishing once and for all that oil was at the bot¬ 
tom of the contemplated ‘grab’ by the three 
bankers. Grant visited the farmers, making 
elaborate notes regarding their loans, rates of 
interest, terms etc., while Esmond completed his 
search of the names that appeared on the old 
hotel register in the Alder Valley House. 
Finally, convinced that there could be no mis¬ 
take and that a gigantic swindle was actually con¬ 
templated by David Church and his two con¬ 
federates in which the lands of the farmers would 

























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6 7 


be ruthlessly confiscated, Esmond and Grant 
ceased their investigations and prepared a trap 
for the bankers. 

Once certain of his ground, Esmond communi¬ 
cated as much of the details of the Alder Valley 
situation as he could safely put in writing to his 
old friend of the Mulvaney Boarding House, 
Earl Rogers, and advised him that he would be 
returning to New York for a conference at an 
early date. He smiled as he contemplated the 
effect his letter would have on the impulsive 
Rogers. Nevertheless his communication em¬ 
bodied the earnestness the situation called for 
and the strong appeal it carried left no doubt 
in Esmond’s mind that Earl Rogers would be 
waiting for him and would give him a sympa¬ 
thetic hearing. 






CHAPTER VI 
THE TRAP 


As the Overland Limited sped east, Esmond 
found himself nearing New York with mixed 
emotions. For one thing, he experienced a grim 
pleasure in dreaming that Mother Mulvaney’s 
troubles would soon be over. He had the ut¬ 
most confidence in Grant and also in Earl 
Rogers, and was certain that if his plans worked 
out he would soon have the satisfaction of break¬ 
ing the strangle hold that David Church and the 
bankers held on the farmers of Alder Valley. 

Strangely enough, however, these thoughts 
failed to revive in him the feeling of exultation 
he had experienced when first the possibility of 
carrying out such a scheme had become apparent. 
In spite of himself he found it difficult to con¬ 
centrate for any length of time on anything ex¬ 
cept Mother Mulvaney’ Boarding House, and 
in the vision that came to his mind most fre¬ 
quently, Mother Mulvaney, Earl Rogers, and the 
other boarders were simply background. Orma 
Williams filled the entire picture. Without her 
the boarding house and his friends there, lost 
their attraction for him. He decided he would 
go immediately to Earl Rogers’ apartment and 
have his business over with. It would not do to 
say too much to Mother Mulvaney anyhow. He 
could go to the boarding house later. 













































































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6 9 


But as his thoughts kept centering about Orma 
Williams, another and far less pleasing picture 
came into his mind. He recalled the weary days 
and weeks he had spent in the factory of Eben 
Lewis. Elis old dislike of the terrible efficiency 
and specialization of the plant roused in him 
once more the deep resentment he always felt 
when talking to Orma about Eben Lewis. He 
wondered how Orma was faring in Europe. Eben 
Lewis had undoubtedly provided her and the 
committee she traveled with, with letters of in¬ 
troduction to the elite of Europe. She was going 
to study sociological conditions. Esmond smiled 
cynically as he contemplated in his mind the 
programme Eben Lewis had undoubtedly map¬ 
ped out for the committee. He could see Orma 
standing on the balcony of the finest hotel in 
Rome receiving instruction on social conditions 
in Italy from Professor Ayers and thers of his 
kind, whom Esmond considered equally ignorant 
of the real conditions there, and utterly unfitted 
to give it. 

Esmond strove to dismiss such pictures from 
his mind, and at intervals he would leave his 
seat in the Pullman and nervously walk to the 
end of the train, where he would stand for a 
time watching the fleeing landscape of the moun¬ 
tain districts. Yet even with this distraction he 
still found it impossible to dismiss the thoughts 
that had tormented him since his departure from 






























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' 























70 


Alder Valley. But presently he ceased fighting 
and surrendered to them, admitting to himself 
that even complete success in Alder Valley, even 
the complete success of his dream of banking 
reform, would mean nothing to his own peace 
and happiness until either he agreed with the 
plans and purposes of Eben Lewis to which 
Orma’s very life was devoted, or until he had 
somehow convinced her that she was following a 
course wholly wrong, and fraught with grave 
danger both to herself and to the country. 

He arrived in New York early on a Sunday 
morning and repaired immediately to the nearest 
telephone booth where he made a connection with 
Earl Rogers’ apartment and ascertained that his 
friend was at home and prepared to see him im¬ 
mediately. He lost no time in hiring a taxi and 
seeking the address. 

Rogers greeted Esmond with the old spon¬ 
taneous cordiality and cheerful goodwill that had 
characterized him during the ‘promotion’ days 
when he had sometimes found difficulty in pay¬ 
ing his board at Mother Mulvaney’s. But all 
that was a thing of the past, and Esmond could 
not but be impressed with the sumptuous nature 
of the west-end apartment in which Rogers had 
taken up his abode. He had expected to find 
him enjoying prosperity, perhaps even a trifle 
recklessly, but he was not altogther prepared to 
find what he actually did. 








. 

. 


































7 1 


The light in the hallway was dim and obscure, 
but Esmond became aware, in a far-off and 
secondary manner of a kind of mahogany panel¬ 
ing effect, the feel of soft carpets below his feet, 
and a faint and peculiar aroma as of woodwork 
that somehow suggested ease and comfort and 
conveyed an air of luxuriousness. As he doffed 
his hat and coat and answered the eager en¬ 
quiries of his old friend, he noted that he was 
surrounded on all sides by doors, solemn and im¬ 
posing in dark red wood with handles of dull 
brass. One of these, evidently leading to a bed¬ 
room, stood open, and Esmond had an impression 
of white and gold—of sunshine streaming brightly 
through a wide opened window, bringing dancing 
reflections from burnished brass and making a 
kind of dull halo about objects of creamy 
white and fixtures of ivory. 

The main living room into which he was led 
by his exuberant host was done in a scheme of 
pink and grey that, while it made Esmond smile 
as he contrasted it with Rogers’ room in Mother 
Mulvaney’s establishment, was, he felt, carried 
out with due observance of aesthetic effect. The 
carpet, the curtains, the lamp shades, and the 
upholstering of the chairs and the sofa, were 
of a delicate pink tint, while the wallpaper, the 
ceiling and the woodwork were picked out in 
grey. A handsome black walnut writing desk 
with silver mountings stood in one corner of the 









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72 


room, overshadowed by a magnificent pedestal 
lamp, while over opposite was a well filled book¬ 
case also in walnut and silver, with leaded panes 
through which could be seen glimpses of elegant 
red and green bindings. The dining room, which 
Esmond visited later, was resplendent in ma¬ 
hogany wainscoting and dull brass, with furni¬ 
ture of solid mahogany upholstered in dark green 
leather. It was apparent enough that no expense 
had been spared. 

“Well, back to the big city, I see,” Rogers 
exclaimed after the first greetings were over. 
“Knew you couldn’t stay in Oklahoma more than 
a month or two without getting into the oil game.” 
He laughed his old hearty, rollicking laugh. 
“Remember when you used to tell me that I was 
all wrong for monkeying with oil and that I 
would go to jail some day sure?” 

“Well,” Esmond replied, “I still claim that you 
don’t deserve a whole lot of credit for your well 
coming in. You had better give God most of the 
credit or he is liable to turn thumbs down on you 
and you will have to go to jail yet.” 

“Now for Heaven’s sake don’t start preaching 
already,” Rogers pleaded. “I am really de¬ 
lighted to see you. You know with all this 
around here,” waving his hand to take in the 
sumptuous furnishings of the room, “I really 
miss the good old days at Mother Mulvaney’s. I 
miss your serious face and old Mother Mul- 



73 


vaney’s Irish humor. You know, Esmond, every 
time I think of you I picture old Atlas going 
around with the world on his shoulders.” 

Esmond smiled good humoredly. “Well, 
Rogers, remember I said from the start oil was 
the best thing I knew of to put people in jail. 
Well, I still think the same way, and I want your 
help in putting three of the worst rascals out or 
captivity behind the bars.” 

“Let's have the harrowing details,” said 
Rogers, “Wait and I will get your letter. Frankiy 
I didn’t understand it.” 

Esmond produced his notebook, and for fully 
an hour went over every bit of the details of the 
Alder Valley situation. Before he got far into 
his story Rogers became deeply interested, and 
Esmond found difficulty in holding him down to 
listen to the less interesting particulars. “You 
mean to say,” Rogers finally broke in, “that we 
can get that oil land at foreclosure prices? that 
the farmers don’t know yet what they have?” 

“No, I don’t mean that at all. Confound it. 
you have a million now. Surely you don’t want 
to grab off five miles of oil land also?” 

“Then what is your plan?” 

“What I want to do,” Esmond declared em¬ 
phatically, “is not to let that land be foreclosed. 
Those banks have insisted on every farmer in 
the five-mile district planting their land with 
broom corn. They know that broom corn this 




' 

' . 



74 


year will be a drug on the market. Don’t you 
see their game? When the crop is harvested and 
the farmers can’t get any money for it, then the 
hanks will swoop down like so many vultures and 
foreclose all of the property.” 

u And how are you going to stop their game?” 

“By buying up the broom corn from every 
farmer in the five-mile district,” Esmond de¬ 
clared. 

“But you say that broom corn won’t be worth 
enough to pay even the interest on the loan,” 
Rogers protested. 

“Earl, if you will help me 1 want to put on 
one of the greatest shows that Alder Valley 
has ever seen. I want to set up a stand in that 
little old place and offer to buy whatever those 
cursed bankers have loaned to each farmer— 
whatever the loan may happen to be, that’s what 
I want to pay him for his corn.” 

Rogers laughed uproariously at the suggestion. 
“Imagine Milton Esmond,” he said, “setting up 
a stand in Alder Valley and buying broom corn at 
from ten to a hundred times what it’s worth on 
the open market. Why, man they will have you 
put into the insane asylum before you have 
bought a ton of it.” 

Esmond failed to see the humor of the situa¬ 
tion. His eyes narrowed and his jaw muscles 
tightened. Rogers had seen the expression be¬ 
fore, and knew the deep conviction and frantic 























' 

x 









75 

determination that characterized Esmond when 
once he had set his heart on a thing. 

“No, they won’t,” Esmond declared steadily. 
“Buying the corn is only one phase of our plan. 
Right now John Grant, my partner, is laying 
the plans for a great broom factory in Alder 
Valley. It is just a dummy concern, of course, 
but our plan is when the banks once find out that 
they have lost the strangle hold on the farmers’ 
property, to lead them into believing that they 
can again obtain a strangle hold on the farmers 
by securing controlling interest in the proposed 
broom factory, which the banks will believe is the 
institution that is putting up all the money for 
the farmers’ corn.” 

Rogers eyes dilated with amusement and sur¬ 
prise at the clever trap Esmond described. “Boy, 
with your plans and my money, we ought to make 
even Eben Lewis look like a pauper in a couple 
of years.” 

“But you haven’t heard it all,” Esmond con¬ 
tinued. “Those banks, you see, will be getting 
back all the money they have loaned to the 
farmers. This is the money we hope to get them 
to put into the fake broom factory. And when 
they do,” Esmond clenched his fist and pounded 
on the table emphatically— “and when they do, 
we are going to engineer a run on their banks 
that will make history in Oklahoma.” 

“And where do I get off?” Rogers queried 


































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7 6 


with a chuckle. “Not that I seem to count much 
in the programme, but just to be sure that we 
are still tied to earth somewhere. I would like 
to have the whole plot. This is rather sudden 
you know—five miles of oil land—fake broom 
factory—a run on the banks—and a proposal to 
spend a couple of hundred thousands of dollars 
for a lot of worthless broom corn. Rather a tall 
order even for me, making due allowance for 
those wild and fantastical ideas you used to 
criticise at Mother Mulvaney’s.” 

“Oh you’ll get yours all right,’’ Esmond re¬ 
plied. “There are only about twenty-five 
farmers all told who own land in the oil belt. 
Grant will have the absolute rights to all minerals 
tied, so that when the bankers’ lesson is over, 
you will be able to move in on a few billion 
dollars worth of oil money, providing,” he added 
effectively, “that you first agree to let the 
farmers in on a decent fifty-per-cent profit.” 

But Rogers had heard enough. With amused 
and hearty exclamations he rose from his chair 
and gave Esmond a resounding slap on the 
shoulder. “Esmond me boy, as Mother Mul- 
vaney would say, you’re on! Go back to Okla¬ 
homa and get that wild lawyer of yours to start 
spending money. You have cooked up the 
prettiest game I ever heard of, and it will be 
worth anything you want to put it over. And 
I believe you can. Let’s shake on it!” 






















































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CHAPTER VII 

MOTHER MULVANEY’S AGAIN 


The meeting between Mother Mulvaney and 
Esmond was not without an element of the dra¬ 
matic and even of the pathetic. For weeks Es¬ 
mond had refrained from giving her any of the de¬ 
tails concerning the situation in Alder Valley, 
leaving his letters vague and evasive on this 
point, in spite of the fact that hardly a day 
passed without bringing him a note from New 
York begging for these details, and praying that 
he would send her some news on the subject that 
would cheer her. 

Esmond came in on Mother Mulvaney late 
on Sunday forenoon after leaving Earl Rogers. 
He found the worthy soul sitting disconsolately at 
her little white kitchen table, one of the few 
relics of her old home in Alder Valley still in her 
possession. His return was totally unexpected, 
as he had not even mentioned it in the last letter 
he had written to her, and his entry found her 
wholly unprepared. Pushing open the swing 
door he came rapidly towards her. “Well 
Mother!” he cried cheerily. “A bad penny 
always turns up again, as you used to say,—and 
here I am, appetite and everything. And I de¬ 
clare I haven’t had a decent meal since I left 
here. Something smells good too—like a chicken 
dinner.” 




















































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For a few moments Mother Mulvaney sat 
transfixed in her chair overcome with astonish¬ 
ment and emotion at the sight of the unexpected 
visitor, incapable even of imparting any life to 
the hand which Esmond had seized and was 
shaking vigorously. Her eyes, though dry, 
were dilated with surprise, and the spark of 
humor always to be found there had for the 
time being taken its departure. At last she arose, 
and placing her hands on Esmond’s shoulders 
looked up into his face and said: “Esmond, me 
boy, how is it at the ould place, and why haven’t 
you been telling me what’s goin’ on? It’s that 
lonely I’ve been without you I’ve often thought 
I’d be cornin’ out to Oklahoma meself. Tell me 
what they’ve done to the ould place. Is anybody 
living in the house, and have they got it down to 
broom corn this year, and what is lawyer Grant 
thinkin’ can be done?” 

Esmond gently removed her hands from his 
shoulders and playfully pushed her back into her 
chair. “Now one question at a time, Mother. I 
have lots of news for you, and it’s all good news. 
You shouldn’t be worrying about things this way. 
Everything will come out all right.” 

“Och shure 1 know your blarney an’ how you 
wouldn’t tell me anything that wasn’t all rosy and 
nice, but something’s been goin’ on, that I know.” 
Mother Mulvaney shook her head wisely, and 
from her expression Esmond gathered that she 






















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79 

did indeed know something, or at least had defir 
nite ideas. 

“What do you imagine has been going on?” he 
asked. 

“Shure an’ that’s what I want to be finding 
out. Just a couple of weeks ago a man came 
here asking a lot of questions that was none of 
his business—about what you was doing out in 
Oklahoma, and if I knew what was going to 
happen to the farm.” 

The news startled Esmond. His thoughts slip¬ 
ped back quickly, but at the moment he could not 
think of anyone outside of the boarders who knew 
that he had gone to Oklahoma. Orma Williams 
knows, of course, but when he thought of her and 
her numerous associates (whom he did not 
know), he saw the futility of trying.to trace the 
mysterious visitor by memory alone. “What 
did he ask you?” he demanded. “Did he leave a 
card?—his name?” 

“No and he didn’t even say who he was. He 
asked me why you went to Oklahoma, and what 
I was going to do, and if I thought I could 
ever get my property back.” 

“Are you sure he didn’t tell you his name?” 

Mother Mulvaney puckered her brows and 
thought hard. “Shure and he might have,” she 
said at length. “Mebby he said it when he first 
came into the house. But there has been so 
many of them here asking about rates for room 



8o 


and board that I ain’t been paying much at¬ 
tention what their names were.” 

“But this is very important,” Esmond urged. 
“Try and recollect—if you can.” 

The effort was painful, Mother Mulvaney 
continuing to mutter names to herself and 
pucker her brows. A sudden thought struck Es¬ 
mond. “Was it E. G. Owens?” he asked. “Did 
it sound anything like that?” 

“Owens! Owens, you say? A. J. Owens? Shure 
an’ it might have been, and it might not have 
been. But what does it matter, wid me dyin’ to 
know about the ould farm and you not tellin’ me 
a thing?” Mother Mulvaney adopted a grieved 
air. 

A cold chill crept over Esmond. Had banker 
Church kept track of his movements, and had 
he gotten in touch with Owens to find out what 
was in the air? Luckily he himself had not im¬ 
parted any details of the scheme to Mother Mul¬ 
vaney in his correspondence, but if Church had 
been so interested as to send word to Owens, 
likely enough he had done other things too. Just 
what they were, and what more he might have 
in mind to do, caused Esmond to pace nervously 
back and forth. Meantime Mother Mulvaney 
was burning with curiosity, and the conviction 
that something really was going on that she knew 
nothing about gradually obsessed her mind. 
Presently Esmond, noting the strained interest 


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in her face, drew up a chair beside her and 
addressed her earnestly. 

“Mother,” he said, “I am going to tell you 
something now which I did not write to you in 
my letters because if you breathe a word of it 
to anyone everything will be spoiled.” 

“Shure an’ 1 knew there was something,” 
Mother Mulvaney replied, the cloud of anxiety 
fading instantly from her face, and the shrewd 
humorous twinkle returning to her eyes. “An’ I 
knew you was making a mistake in not telling 
your old Mother Mulvaney everything.” 

So forthwith Esmond recited to Mother Mul¬ 
vaney all the details connected with the unusual 
situation in Alder Valley. He was surprised to 
observe, as the story went along, how closely 
Mother Mulvaney followed, and what a re¬ 
markable grasp she had on the intricacies of the 
plot itself. Before Esmond was half through 
she understood fully the significance of the 
mysterious visitor who had come enquiring after 
him in his absence. She was delighted to hear 
the favorable report concerning Earl Rogers, and 
to learn that he was prepared to throw the en¬ 
tire weight of his newly acquired riches into the 
struggle. Esmond wound up the narration by 
dwelling laughingly on the words Rogers had 
used in describing Mother Mulvaney’s cooking. 

“Shure,” the old lady broke in triumphantly at 
this point, “an’ I’ll be after havin’ the greatest 
























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82 


chicken stew dinner wid dumplings and baked 
potatoes, warm apple pie, and cheese, and all the 
trimmings and fixings as soon as ever you can get 
him to come over here!” 

“And we’ll eat it,” said Esmond enthusiasti¬ 
cally, “right out here in the kitchen.” 

“Just the three of us—an’ right on this same 
ould table!” Mother Mulvaney declared ex¬ 
citedly. An’ then we’ll pack up, and the next 
time we’re after having a chicken dinner it’ll be 
back where we should be havin’ it—on the ould 
farm in Alder Valley.” 

But the enthusiasm that had communicated it¬ 
self temporarily from the excited old lady to 
Esmond soon died down in the bosom of the 
latter. Mother Mulvaney’s words “just the 
three of us” recalled to his mind something that 
had never really left it except at rare intervals 
such as the immediate business with Earl Rogers 
or the reunion with Mother Mulvaney. For a 
moment he turned his wistful gaze towards the 
dining room. 

“Shure an’ I know what you’re after think¬ 
ing of,” Mother Mulvaney exclaimed suddenly, 
rising quickly from her chair. “What a foolish 
ould woman I’m getting to be. Here I am 
forgettin’ to tell you about the mail that’s been 
waiting here for ye for a week.” 

“Mail!” said Esmond eagerly. “Where 
from?” He had expected that there would be 


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83 


letters, the usual sort from the few friends 
scattered about the country with whom he still 
maintained a desultory correspondence. Yet 
there might be amongst the others one in a 
handwriting he had never seen. Impatiently 
he followed Mother Mulvaney to the cupboard 
and reached for the old plate that held a bundle 
of papers and letters. Skimming rapidly through 
the lot he seized two distinctly foreign-looking 
envelopes, large square ones, bearing a series of 
stamps, and with numerous official markings 
scattered over them. They were addressed to: 
“Mr. Milton Esmond, in care of Mrs. Mul¬ 
vaney, etc.” Esmond’s first impulse was to tear 
open the first , one he held, but something re¬ 
strained him, and instead he opened his pen knife 
deliberately and carefully*slit the envelope. With 
nervous haste he turned quickly to the last page 
of the letter and read with deep satisfaction, 
“Your sincere friend, Orma Williams.” Ex¬ 
cusing himself to Mother Mulvaney he went up¬ 
stairs to the parlor, and was relieved to find that 
no one else was there. Nothing had been 
changed. The very chairs were arranged as 
they had been on the many evenings when Orma 
had sat with him. He placed her chair by the 
side of his own, then seating himself he used it 
as a kind of rest for is elbow, allowing his 
thoughts at the same time to dwell upon the 
old times until he became half alarmed at the 



8 4 


strength of his reaction to the surroundings, and 
the sudden and violent pounding of his heart. 
Absence had not changed the intensity of his 
feelings. 

Presently he roused himself, and settling to 
a comfortable position commenced to read slowly 
and carefully. “My dear Milton,” the letter 
began—and for a time he got no further but 
kept going over the words again and again, each 
time experiencing a new thrill from the delicate 
feminine writing that in his fancy portrayed Orm a 
the girl rather than Orma the reformer and 
economist. Nevertheless Orma had really 
penned a masterpiece of description and detail, 
and once fairly started Esmond read through the 
letter quickly, skimming over the details and 
searching for some paragrph or sentence that 
might reveal the woman herself, the woman whose 
handwriting was so plainly and eloquently that of 
the girl Orma, and hot that of a student and mem¬ 
ber of the Eben Lewis Commission to Europe. 
But his eager quest availed him nothing, and with 
a sigh he settled down to a careful perusal of 
the epistle. “Even before we left,” the letter 
started, “Dr. Ayers, Mrs. Gibson, and the other 
members of the committee and myself were 
given no inkling of what we might expect in 
Europe. 

“Eben Lewis called us all into his private 
office and read copies of the letters and cable- 



85 


grams that he had forwarded to important 
people in Europe whom we will meet. We will 
have to visit the high as well as the low, you 
know, in order to study the true sociological con¬ 
ditions. We are to spare no expense, and call 
upon the resources of the many powerful and in¬ 
fluential men to whom Mr. Lewis has given us 
letters.” 

All of this should have been interesting, Es¬ 
mond tried to convince himself, yet as he read it 
the old cynical attitude he had come to adopt to¬ 
wards Eben Lewis and all he stood for L./ept 
over him once again. He now found it im¬ 
possible to view the man in anything but an 
unfavorable light. Hero worship had been 
crowded out by suspicion and distrust. He 
turned again to the letter, one paragraph of 
which interested him intensely. “Before I left,” 
Orma wrote, “I made one of the conditions that 
Dr. Ayers should take me personally to the firm 
of book publishers I had in mind when I spoke 
to you, and there we all went over in detail your 
manuscript ‘The Strangle Hold.’ After the first 
meeting the editors were sufficiently interested to 
give it a second reading. Dr. Ayers and my¬ 
self went back three times after that and finally 
secured a promise from them that the book would 
be brought out sometime within the coming year.” 

Esmond had somehow missed this paragraph 
in his first rapid scanning of the pages. His 



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86 


book would be published! Two years of con¬ 
stant effort would be finally rewarded. In spite 
of responsibilities and eagerness to be on her 
journey Orma had yet taken the time to use her 
influence in putting his book before Dr. Ayers’ 
publishers. Esmond lapsed into a deep reverie 
in which the book, Alder Valley, even the com¬ 
mission to Europe played no part. Orma alone 
filled the picture. 

He found himself speculating as to whether 
the path of romance that would some day beckon 
so charming a girl was already defined in her 
vision. “Some day,” he mused, “she will come 
to the cross-roads of life when she must decide 
between her career and the romance I am sure she 
longs for. The career is defined and specific; 
she knows where that road leads. But the path 
of romance—does she know where that may take 
her?” By sheer force of will he drove the 
picture from his mind, the dream urge from his 
heart. 





CHAPTER VIII 
THE ENCOUNTER 


Esmond opened his second letter with a feel¬ 
ing of deep interest. Orma had written it after 
two weeks spent in Naples, Italy. It fairly 
teemed with enthusiasm and vivid descriptions 
of the places she had visited and the people she 
had met. One name in particular occurred, it 
seemed to Esmond, in every paragraph—the name 
of Count Alessandro Sapellia. He was one of 
the influential and powerful men of Southern 
Europe, upon whom Eben Lewis had directed the 
Commission to call. 

“He is a great example, Orma wrote, of the 
power for good a man can be when he really 
has the interests of his country and of his people 
at heart. He seems more than anxious to do 
everything in his power to show us how closely 
his problems of a few years ago resemble the 
problems Eben Lewis believes must now be 
solved in America. How Sapellia has met these 
problems forms one of the most fascinating 
stories we have encountered thus far. I have 
written it up myself, as 1 really believe it will be 
one of the big scoops when published in the 
Pendulum. I have not even consulted Professor 
Ayers about this story, as I want to surprise him 
with it when the trip is over, I know he is very 
much interested in Sapellia, but he has so many 





88 


people to meet here and so many matters to at¬ 
tend to that he has not had time to take care of 
the details. When my story is written I am going 
to submit it to Count Sapellia myself for his ap¬ 
proval. It will probably be several weeks before 
1 can see him again, as we are going to take 
a trip through some of the Balkan States and 
will not return to Naples for some time.” 

Then followed a regular dissertation on art 
and music and the life of the common people— 
and then again Count Sapellia. After expressing 
astonishment at the contented lives of the 
peasants of Italy as contrasted with the restless 
ambition of the lower classes in America, Orma 
continued: “Perhaps there is a reason for 

this. Eben Lewis says there is, but 

really Milton it seems that since the first 

time we met we have done nothing but argue 
about the Eben Lewis programme. I do try to 
keep my mind open on the subject, even though 
you probably have never given me credit for it. 
Just the same I went to Eben Lewis even after 
you had left for Oklahoma and frankly laid be¬ 
fore him the things you had said. I cannot tell 
you all that he told me, but it gave me serious 
concern. Of course I told Mr. Lewis a great 
deal of what you were doing for Mother Mul- 
vaney—indeed I was perhaps too enthusiastic 
about it all. I told him I thought you were en¬ 
gaged in a very noble work and I knew you 





































































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were only doing it because of the injustice that 
had been done Mother Mulvaney by the Alder 
Valley bankers. He seemed certain that you 
would have no difficulty in getting the best of 
the Alder Valley bankers. Why do you sup¬ 
pose he was so certain on this point? He next 
demanded all the facts of the case—said he might 
be able to use that particular situation in his 
campaign for bank reform. If you should re¬ 
turn to New York before I do and if you care 
to call on Eben Lewis I am sure he would be 
glad to see you, as he is very much interested in 
getting all the details of the Alder Valley Bank 
situation.” 

So Orma had discussed him with Eben Lewis! 
Something in the way she told of it gave Es¬ 
mond a queer presentiment that Lewis had said 
something that had caused Orma’s feelings to¬ 
wards him to change. Why had she taken so 
much trouble on his behalf? What had she told 
Eben Lewis? And (more important still) what 
had Eben Lewis told her? So he would have ab¬ 
solutely no trouble breaking the strangle hold in 
Alder Valley! A glint of anger came to Es¬ 
mond’s eyes. That at least was something that 
justified, and indeed almost necessitated, a per¬ 
sonal interview. Esmond felt certain that Orma 
had paved the way for this. She even went 
the length of expressing her conviction that Eben 
Lewis would welcome him if for nothing else than 






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90 


to use the Alder Valley situation in his propa¬ 
ganda. Esmond weighed the matter carefully 
and finally decided to call on Eben Lewis. 

Somewhat to his surprise Esmond found no 
difficulty in gaining admission to the inner offices 
of the great manufacturer. His wonder at the 
ease with which he secured this admission in¬ 
creased as he recalled the weeks and weeks spent 
a year earlier in a vain effort to secure an 
audience even with one of the executives of the 
Lewis staff. 

Lewis was in and waiting for him. He greeted 
Esmond with a perfunctory nod and asked him 
to be seated. “You are the Milton Esmond of 
whom Miss Williams spoke, are you not?” Lewis 
asked. 

“I am,” Esmond replied. 

“She talked considerably about you,” Lewis 
continued, “particularly of your interest in what 
appears to be a very remarkable example of what 
bankers can do under modern banking laws. I 
told Miss Williams I would see you and have 
you relate the circumstances attending the par¬ 
ticular case you are interested in.” As he fin¬ 
ished speaking he reached for a pad and pencil 
as though to take down the facts regarding the 
case and thus end the interview. 

“So I understand,” said Esmond, “Miss Wil¬ 
liams has written me that she explained some¬ 
thing to you about the case.” 











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9 1 


Lewis raised his eyebrows and poised his pencil 
over the pad. Plainly he was surprised and ap¬ 
parently not well pleased that Orma had been 
corresponding with him. 

“She also mentioned,” Esmond went on 
“that you assured her I would have no diffi¬ 
culty whatever in recovering Mrs. Mulvaney’s 
property from the bankers. Would you mind 
explaining just why you felt so certain of this?” 

Lewis was accustomed to dealing with the ob¬ 
jects of his propaganda in the abstract rather 
than the concrete, and he found it annoying in 
the extreme to meet this man face to face and 
have him ask questions. For a few moments he 
did not reply but continued to draw meaningless 
circles and squares on the pad before him. 
Presently with a cold and humorless smile he re¬ 
plied: “Oh, nothing personal, of course, but 1 men 
of your race have rarely been known to lose out 
in a struggle where finances were at stake, have 
they?” 

Esmond winced, and a slight flush came over 
his face. “You say it is nothing personal,” he 
retorted. “But under the circumstances I can 
hardly recognize it as anything else. From what 
Miss Williams wrote I feel that you did mean 
your remarks to be very personal indeed, al¬ 
though you did not know me when you made 
them—had never even met me.” 

“I really don’t care to discuss that angle of 




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92 


the affair,” Lewis replied, regaining his com¬ 
posure. “I made a statement which was in¬ 
tended simply and solely for Miss Williams, and 
was not meant eyer to reach or to embarrass you. 
Nevertheless since you raise the issue I do not 
need to recall to your mind what my position re¬ 
garding the Jews is now, and has been for several 
years past. Since Miss Williams is correspond¬ 
ing with you,” (at this point it seemed to Es¬ 
mond that a certain vindictiveness crept into 
Lewis’ voice), “she has undoubtedly informed 
you of the purpose of the commission’s trip to 
Europe.” He eyed Esmond steadily as though 
much depended on his answer. 

“She did not need to tell me. The fact that 
you are about to launch an anti-racial campaign 
in the United States is not only well known, but 
has already disgusted every thinking man and 
woman in the country.” Lewis’ gaze faltered 
under the fierce gleam in Esmond’s eyes. “I 
have discussed your proposed campaign with 
Miss Williams and would have given a great deal 
to have been able to convince her that you were 
simply a product of the unwholesome tendency 
of the times, and of a freak situation resulting 
from the war; that you are using your millions 
to gratify your personal whims and notions; and 
that circumstances have built up through you and 
around you an agency by means of which your 
ideas, foolish as they are, are likely to be heeded 


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93 


by thoughtless and excited people throughout the 
country. Some day Miss Williams will come 
to know it. And 1 must confess that I am 
shocked and disappointed to learn that you are 
willing to carry your personal grudge against the 
race to which I belong so far as to poison the 
mind of Miss Williams concerning me as an in¬ 
dividual.” 

Eben Lewis no longer attempted to disguise 
his hatred of the race in question, and now ap¬ 
peared tp focus his entire malignance upon the 
member who stood before him. “You have tried 
to teach that sort of doctrine to Miss Williams 
for months past, I am well aware,” he said 
harshly. “She herself has told me so. But I 
assured her that it was not in your blood to be 
genuinely interested in her work, or my work, or 
any work except an eternal grasping for money. 
When she told me you had left for Oklahoma I 
told her that you would be interested in nothing 
but grabbing the resources of the business of that 
community. You have talked of nothing but 
business, money, and banking to her from the 
start. She admits it. That’s really all you’re 
interested in—excepting perhaps corrupting her 
mind and her ideas.” He pushed the pad aside, 
slammed his pencil on the desk, and rose to con¬ 
clude the interview. 

Without further remark Esmond lifted his 
hat and left the office. Dazed though he was 



94 


he yet contrived to make his way somehow or 
other back to the parlor of Mother Mulvaney’s 
boarding house. All along the road there kept 
coursing through his brain the things Eben Lewis 
had said. There was little reason to doubt that 
he had said as much and possibly more to Orma 
Williams. It was more than likely that he had 
pictured him (Esmond) in Orma’s mind as a 
greedy adventurer merely seeking to recover 
Mother Mulvaney’s property for his own per¬ 
sonal advantage. The horrible injustice of such 
a suggestion sickened him, for he knew the faith 
Orma had in Eben Lewis and his ideas. His 
soul cried out in righteous indignation against 
the whole business, not alone because Eben Lewis 
had injured him personally or because Orma 
might have believed what Lewis said, but because 
the words uttered by Lewis would soon be echoed 
throughout the land, and the woman he loved 
would help to spread them. 

After the first depressing weight of mental 
anguish had lifted slightly, Esmond went over 
again step by step the dismal months since that 
dreadful cold, grey morning when there was re¬ 
vealed to his battle-inflamed vision the last 
despairing appeal in the dying eyes of Michael 
Mulvaney. Had he not been true to his promise 
to his dead friend? Had he not fought and 
striven to save the Mulvaney farm, even as he 
was still fighting and striving to save it? And 


























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95 


yet, now that the thing had taken on a more 
sinister aspect than the mere grabbing of com¬ 
paratively worthless land, doubt was to be cast 
on his motive—his sincerity was and had been im¬ 
pugned. It was all so mean and so grossly un¬ 
fair. 

And yet how could he fight it? To the casual 
onlooker and to guilty minds haunted by unjust 
suspicions it no doubt looked as if he had some 
ulterior motive of a deep and dark nature. Once 
such a ball was set a-rolling it would go on in¬ 
creasing steadily—especially if Mother Mul- 
vaney’s land proved to be rich. He made a grim 
vow that by his subsequent conduct he would let 
Eben Lewis see, would let the whole world see, 
the purity of his motives by the disinterested and 
unselfish nature of his conduct. Since the suc¬ 
cess of his scheme seemed assured he resolved 
from that time on to concentrate less on the 
Alder Valley situation and more and more on 
his love affair with Orma. His duty to his dead 
buddy was almost finished; his duty to himself 
and to the woman he loved had not yet properly 
commenced. 

Mother Mulvaney had heard Esmond enter 
the house, and had waited for him in the kitchen 
below until she felt certain he did not intend to 
come down, where-upon she made for the parlor 
overhead. Still brimming over with joy from the 
good news he had brought her earlier in the 


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day, and with her plans all set, ready for her 
triumphant return to Alder Valley, she came 
in on Esmond with a joyous rush. And then im¬ 
mediately she stopped short. In, place of the 
cheerful, buoyant Esmond of a few hours earlier, 
she found a sad, dejected boy, slumped heavily in 
his chair, his head between his hands. 

“Esmond, me boy, what’s ailin’ you? Has 
Earl Rogers gone back on his deal? Is the ould 
place lost again? Sure, honey, and won’t you 
tell your ould mother what’s the matter wid 
you?” 

Esmond sighed heavily, rose to his feet, and 
with an effort straightened out the lines of pain 
which showed plainly on his face. “Oh it’s 
nothing, Mother,” he replied, placing his arms 
on the old lady’s shoulders. “I was just down 
to see Eben Lewis. It’s the first time I have 
met the man himself, and he said some things to 
me that I didn’t like.” 

“And what could he be sayin’ that would hurt 
you?” 

“Oh a lot of things. But I won’t be bothering 
you with them, Mother. I’ve got to go now and 
tell Earl about your chicken dinner and be sure 
that he is over here on time. Everything is all 
right so far as Alder Valley is concerned.” 

He patted her tenderly on the shoulder, then 
hurried downstairs and round to the corner of 
Boon Street where he boarded a car that took 



















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97 


him to the apartment of his friend. With diffi¬ 
culty he had overcome the feeling of depression 
and anger that had alarmed Mother Mulvaney. 
It would not do to approach Earl Rogers in this 
mood. Yet he felt that he must make the call. 

He found Rogers in, pacing excitedly back and 
forth across the rich carpet of his living room, 
alternately clasping and unclasping his hands be¬ 
hind his back as though the act helped him out 
and stimulated the flow of his thoughts. He knew 
Esmond well enough to allow him to stand and 
watch this process for a few moments before 
finally striding across the room and greeting him. 

“Esmond, that stunt you have worked up in 
Alder Valley is the greatest thing I have ever 
heard of. Why if that land of Mother Mul- 
vaney’s and the rest of the five-mile strip is really 
oil land we’ll have more millions than we can 
ever spend. Think of it, man! Buying in oil 
land at less than the price of broom-corn ground! 
I have been to the bank already, also to my 
brokers, and I am prepared to back this thing 
with all the money it needs. Believe me, I’m 
rearing to go!” 

The enthusiastic Rogers stopped short and 
pointed to a spot on the carpet that marked one 
end of the path he had made in pacing back and 
forth. “See that?” he exclaimed. “Well right 
there I have built an oil refinery, one of the 
greatest in the West—new ideas—new equipment— 


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will bring the price of gasoline down to half what 
it is now. And all over here,” he went on 
excitedly, indicating lines on the carpet, “are 
pipe lines, by-product factories, everything that 
goes in the greatest oil field in the country. And 
think,” he continued placing his arms on Es¬ 
mond’s shoulders. “You and I were having a 
hard time paying a measely $15 a week for board 
at Mother Mulvaney’s only a year ago,” In his 
enthusiasm and excitement Rogers took no notice 
whatever of the dejected and depressed ex¬ 
pression that had not entirely left Esmond’s face, 
so that presently Esmond, seeing that there was 
little he could do or say that would add to his 
friend’s enthusiasm, hastened to cut the dialogue 
short. 

“Rogers, everything you say about that oil land 
is absolutely true. Of course we haven’t got it 
yet. You will find this bunch of bankers, these 
fellows who now have the strangle hold, the 
hardest to beat that you were ever up against. 
But it can be done, and it will be done. What I 
came over here to do now was to make you a 
proposition. I want to lay all the cards on the 
table. I want to give you all the facts—every¬ 
thing I know. I want to give you power of at¬ 
torney to represent me, and I want you to handle 
that matter out there, you and my friend Grant, 
without me.” 

“Without you!” Rogers gasped. “Why man, 



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99 


you’re the whole thing. It’s your deal—your 
claim. You have been two years working on this 
thing. Impossible! You’re the pivot arounci 
which everything revolves.” 

Esmond raised his hand in protest. “But it 
has gotten to the point now where it can be 
handled without me, and,” he added this with 
the emphasis of finality, “it must be handled with¬ 
out me. My only request is that you remember 
the strict terms of our agreement. Mother Mul- 
vaney’s place must be restored to*her with ab¬ 
solutely all—that means ioo percent—of the oil 
rights, mineral rights, and every other kind of 
rights, with no strings whatsoever. After that 
is done, and if you are able to break the strangle 
hold the bankers have on the rest of that five-mile 
strip, you can take your legitimate profit, which 
the Lord knows will be enough. But the farmers 
are to be taken care of, and especially all of those 
in the five-mile strip. You and Grant and 
Mother Mulvaney can have all there is in it.” 

“And what will you be doing? Going back to 
work at the Eben Lewis factory, I suppose?” 

But Esmond did not catch the humor. “No,” 
he replied slowly. “I am going to take a trip, 
probably to Europe.” 


























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CHAPTER IX 
THE REACTION 


Mother Mulvaney ultimately found the card 
left by the mysterious stranger who had come to 
her house enquiring about Milton Esmond. It 
was that of E. G. Owens! When she handed 
it over to Esmond it cost him an effort to dis¬ 
guise the apprehension that filled him as he 
realized that the Oklahoma bankers were indeed 
aware that a new campaign was on foot. His 
Alder Valley scheme might not be quite so secure 
and certain of success as he had assumed. E. G. 
Owens had been communicated with—had prob¬ 
ably been warned to be on the lookout for any 
unusual developments! Esmond of course had 
no way of ascertaining just how much Owens 
had found out, but it seemed reasonable enough 
to assume that the investigation started by the 
Alder Valley Bankers would not stop with the 
one visit on the part of Owens to the Mulvaney 
home. 

After the first sensation of alarm had come 
and gone Esmond regained some of his con¬ 
fidence. After all only four people really knew 
of the complete plans, John Grant, Earl Rogers, 
Mother Mulvaney and himself. All of them 
could be counted on implicitly to say nothing. 
Yes, victory seemed just as certain as it ever had 
seemed, but of course it was only reasonable to 




























































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IOI 


expect that the enemy would use ordinary or even 
extraordinary vigilance—would in fact go to al¬ 
most any extreme in guarding their secret and 
keeping others from knowing too much about the 
potentialities of the Alder Valley land. 

The fact that Owens had visited Mother 
Mulvaney might have been expected to 
give Esmond the thrill of battle. For two years 
he had thought of scarcely anything else than the 
breaking of the strangle hold held by the 
bankers, and for the first time in the weary con¬ 
flict the odds were in his favor. Circumstances 
had adjusted themselves, especially in regard to 
Earl Rogers, in a way that not only made victory 
possible, but assured him of a sensational triumph 
that would fairly rock the country. Yet in spite 
of it all, Esmond found himself unable to antici¬ 
pate the impending victory with any great degree 
of pleasure. Something had come over him 
which seemed to have affected his viewpoint, and 
which made the affair in Oklahoma wear an al¬ 
most repulsive aspect—he could not tell exactly 
why. 

He attempted to philosophize and convince 
himself that fate invariably worked out in this 
manner. It was a matter of common knowledge, 
he told himself, that the anticipation of victory 
was always much more pleasant than its realiza¬ 
tion. Yet such reasoning failed to carry any 
conviction. In his heart he knew that something 



102 


far from Alder Valley had robbed him of the 
just reward his victory should have brought, and 
he could no longer disguise the truth from him¬ 
self, the truth that Alder Valley and everything 
connected with it had sunk to second place in his 
thoughts, and that Orma Williams, her mission 
to Europe, her connection with Eben Lewis, and 
the things he had heard at his interview with 
that magnate, had now assumed supreme im¬ 
portance in his life. 

He recalled anew the words of Lewis and 
cruel and false as he knew them to be, yet he 
was forced to admit they wore an air of plausi¬ 
bility, and it came upon him with a shock that he 
had never once, in his many talks and visits with 
Orma, made a serious effort to see her side of 
the controversy. His reasoning, his logic 
and his convictions all so apparent and sound to 
himself, had never been properly put before her. 
He had simply laid down the law and let it go 
at that. What could her attitude towards him 
lie? 

Orma knew but little of his experience in 
Eben Lewis’ factory, certainly not enough to 
understand and appreciate his feelings with re¬ 
gard to conditions there and the direction in 
which he believed his duty to lie. He had never 
let her know that he regarded seriously what she 
deemed to be her life work, and in going back 
over old ground he saw himself continually con- 















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io3 


demning her programme as wrong without at 
the same time furnishing any sound reasons in 
proof thereof. He recalled too that by far che 
greater part of the time he had spent with 
Orma had been taken up in fruitless discussions 
about the Alder Valley difficulties and the bank¬ 
ing situation. The very words soured on Es¬ 
mond as he repeated them to himself. No 
wonder she had listened to Eben Lewis’ con¬ 
demnation of his motives, when his conversa¬ 
tion with her had never concerned anything but 
finance, banking methods, and mortgages. 
What more natural than that she should lend a 
ready ear to the artful suggestion that business 
and finance predominated in his mind because of 
his Jewish blood? 

The burden of such thoughts finally became 
intolerable until, unable to endure them any 
longer, he retired to his room to read over 
Orma’s letter once again. As he now viewed 
and reviewed the situation he began to wonder 
that she had taken the trouble to write to him at 
all, or that she should continue to think of him 
after all that had happened. Why had he not 
treated her as a woman of flesh and blood in¬ 
stead of persisting in regarding her as a kind 
of economic evangelist? Would any true 
woman be the least bit concerned about such 
fegard if it did not carry with it at the same 
time due and fitting acknowledgment of her 


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104 


charm and worth as a woman—the acknowledg¬ 
ment he had never seen fit to make to her? 

With a sigh he forced his thoughts back to the 
Alder Valley problem which he still felt he must 
at all costs keep alive in his mind, although he 
now regarded Grant and Rogers as the central 
figures, and found himself utterly unable to re¬ 
gain his old time enthusiasm for ‘the cause,’ 
chiefly because of the strength of his conviction 
that what Eben Lewis had said of him must un¬ 
doubtedly have influenced Orma to the point 
where victory for himself and his colleagues in 
Alder Valley would simply appear to prove the 
validity of the charges laid against him. It 
would look as if he had succeeded in feathering 
his own nest under cover of fine ideals, duty to 
a dead friend, and altruistic regard for the 
triumph of right and justice. And such a situa¬ 
tion, he felt, would be intolerable. 

What was really happening, although he did 
not know it, was that his love for Orma was 
broadening his mind and impelling him into the 
direction of making an honest and earnest at¬ 
tempt to see and understand both sides of the 
question he had discussed with her, still convinced 
that she was on the wrong side. He had now 
come to believe that it was a solemn duty he 
owed her to let her understand that he recognized 
his previous shortcomings and was now not only 
willing but anxious to investigate her side of the 





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case. 

As the days passed in enforced idleness while 
his plaas were being slowly carried forward in 
Alder Valley, this conflict continued to rage 
in his bosom, love and his sense of duty tug¬ 
ging in different directions until he was in a 
condition bordering on distraction. In his severe 
self-condemnation he even began to question his 
own motives those motives whose sincerity he 
thought he could have died to establish. Those 
thrills he had experienced at the thought of the 
riches that would accrue from the oil develop¬ 
ment in the five-mile strip—were they not really 
engendered by the thought of the material wealth, 
as Eben Lewis had charged, in which he him¬ 
self might share, rather than from the conviction 
that Mother Mulvaney and the farmers would 
get justice? Had he not allowed himself to 
dwell, in the secret recesses of his heart, on the 
certainty that he himself would be rewarded in 
a material fashion for his pains—would share in 
the new found wealth? What if he had 
hastened to dismiss such thoughts from his mind 
along with that other thought that Mother Mul¬ 
vaney, become rich, would never see him go 
unrewarded—that when it was all over he would 
be in a financial position to go forward boldly 
and claim Orma? He had at least entertained 
them. He had simply been selfish after all—as 
greedy and scheming as any of them, even as 















































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those he condemned. 

There appeared to be only one thing left for 
him to do, one way in which his outraged man¬ 
hood might recover and assert itself. There 
was no longer any immediate necessity for his 
presence on the spot—the Alder Valley project 
was in safe hands who knew how to deal with it. 
He would go to Europe and lay the whole case 
before Orma, in accordance with his first im¬ 
pulse. He would appoint her as the referee of 
his conduct, would ascertain from her lips 
whether he was deserving of praise or of blame. 
And he would tell her too of his love for hen 
Without announcing his plans to any of his 
friends he packed his belongings, and on a 
certain fine morning left the boarding house and 
took steamer for Italy. An hour later a letter 
came marked “For Esmond only.” Mother 
Mulvaney placed it on the old plate and gave 
it no other thought. 












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CHAPTER X 

COUNT SAPELLIA SHOWS HIS HAND 


Dr. Malcolm Ayers, Professor Horace New- 
lin, Mrs. Thomas Gibson, and Miss Orma 
Williams started work in Rome with the vigor 
and simplicity that so often characterizes the 
actions of American uplifters. At the outset the 
meetings were called to order promptly at 9 
a. m. Dr. Ayers, who presided, passed out as¬ 
signments to his fellow workers with all the 
earnestness and concern that the importance of 
the mission appeared to warrant. All took 
themselves and their tasks seriously. 

But at the end of the three weeks a change 
began to make itself noticed. No one showed 
up at the morning meetings until around noon, 
although the hour of assembly had never been 
officially changed. Yet none commented on this 
apparent laxity, each recognizing in the puzzled 
expressions on the faces of his fellow commis¬ 
sioners the same struggle between the 
schedule which American methods had prompted 
them to set, and the carefree, easy-going life 
amid which they found themselves. 

On this particular day Dr. Ayers took the chair 
as usual. It was observed that he failed to rap 
for order, as was customary, but instead curled 
his new mustache with the usual American vigor, 
apparently hoping to accomplish in three weeks 



ioS 


what deftness and natural adaptability had done 
for his Italian friends. Presently he announced: 
“It seems advisable to dispense with our after¬ 
noon meetings at least for the present. We will 
continue to meet at this hour, as usual, each day, 
and make a report on the previous day’s work, at 
the same time laying out the programme for the 
following day. Mrs. Gibson, we adjourned yes¬ 
terday before you had an opportunity to read 
your report on the congested tenement districts 
of Rome. Perhaps you will now oblige us?” 

Mrs. Gibson cleared her throat and fumbled 
at a portfolio containing a mass of sheets written 
in sprawling longhand. “Really, Dr. Ayers, 
these people here do not seem to know what an 
American typewriter is for. I had no idea it 
would be so hard to get my report prepared in 
proper shape. These notes,” tapping the pile 
of papers significantly, “contain all of the essen¬ 
tials, but they should be gotten together in proper 
form before being submitted. Professor Newlin 
has monopolized our only machine for the last 
week or more.” 

At this Professor Newlin raised his learned 
brow enquiringly and asked if Mrs. Gibson would 
like to use the machine in question during the 
afternoon. 

“No thank you,” Mrs. Gibson replied, “Miss 
Williams and I have an important appointment 
this p. m. with Count Alessandro Sapellia, haven’t 








io9 


we, Orma?” Orma flushed slightly, but at the 
same time acknowledged the truth of the state¬ 
ment. The business of the day was then gotten 
under way. 

Half-an-hour was taken up by Professor New- 
lin in going over the various phases of the work 
done by the commission to date, and reviewing 
the results achieved. Dr. Ayers listened with a 
bored air, and continued to twist and curl his 
young mustache, looking languidly from one 
member to another the while. He seemed to 
be faintly aggravated by Professor Newlin’s in¬ 
termittent reflections on the lack of actual accom¬ 
plishment by the commission. Nothing definite, 
it appeared, had been done. The country did 
not appeal to Professor Newlin anyway; the 
people did not take themselves seriously enough— 
did not take the commission seriously enough. 
Mrs. Gibson listened to Newlin’s comments with 
a self-sufficient smile which seemed to indicate 
that she knew more than he did about what was 
actually required of the commission. Orma sat 
silently, listening and watching. 

Presently Dr. Ayers silenced Professor New¬ 
lin and remarked with the air of superior intelli¬ 
gence befitting a chairman who knew more than 
the members of his committee: “The time 

seems opportune for a franker statement as to 
our real purpose here. I had hoped that during 
the past weeks we would work together in such a 
















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way as to create a suitable impression upon those 
among whom we have temporarily taken up our 
abode, to the end that a proper foundation for 
publicity might be laid. Whether or not we 
have succeeded in this is possibly open to ques¬ 
tion. Some of us,” smiling broadly at Professor 
Newlin, “seem unable to forget we are not now 
in school. After all, my dear Newlin, we knew 
before we came on this trip exactly what we 
would find. Why waste time checking up de¬ 
tails? We knew what we might expect to find 
and,” with an impressive sweep of his hand, “we 
have found it. Now, I think,” winking fraternally 
at the lady members of the commission, “we may 
relax to the extent of seeking a little real Italian 
atmosphere, and indulging in a little of the social 
life of the country.” 

Mrs. Gibson smiled her appreciation. “I could 
have reported at any time and at any length on 
that phase of the situation, I believe, Mr. Chair¬ 
man,” she said. “And I assure you it would be 
much more interesting than working this 
material over,” again eyeing the pile of notes 
heaped before her. 

Orma offered a weak protest which failed to 
get past Mrs. Gibson’s ears. “Now Orma, my 
dear, don’t protest. You know how delightful 
Count Sapellia has been and how much he has 
meant to us—what he has done towards making 
our stay in Rome, shall I say, interesting?” 


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111 


“But Mrs. Gibson,” Orma demurred, “I am 
sure you overlook the real motive we have all 
had in enjoying Count Sapellia’s hospitality. You 
know he is really a counterpart, here in Italy, 
of what Eben Lewis is in the United States. The 
Count has been a great help because he has told 
me so much of the great problems he has had 
to face in contending with the various races 
which are present even here in Italy.” 

“That is perfectly true,” Mrs. Gibson replied. 

I am sure we all appreciate Count Sapellia and 
what he has done. And incidentally don’t for¬ 
get that you and I have an appointment with him 
immediately after this meeting adjourns.” This 
created laughter and a , proposal for the ad¬ 
journment in question which was carried without 
dissent. 

Orma and Mrs. Gibson betook themselves 
without delay to the Sapellia Palace, an im¬ 
posing Gothic pile flanking a side of one of the 
city’s most important squares, a square famous as 
the scene of many popular demonstrations, where 
the people were accustomed to assemble in times 
of crisis, national or civic, and declare them¬ 
selves. It had been a tradition in the Sapellia 
family to preserve the ancient home of the line 
as far as possible in its pristine magnificence, and 
to resist modern innovations except in so far as 
these could be taken advantage of to beautify and 
adorn the original structure and add to the 











































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I 12 


comfort of its inhabitants. The result was 
that the palace still retained the halls and 
salons, the marble staircases, mosiac floors and 
gorgeous ceilings for which it had been famous in 
days gone by, and which were still a never failing- 
source of admiration and wonder to visitors from 
all parts of the world. 

The ladies were received by Count Sapellia in 
a small reception room off one of the large 
salons on the ground floor, a room distinguished 
by a frescoed ceiling of more than ordinary mag¬ 
nificence, and for the size and workmanship of 
the chandeliers suspended from it. The living 
representatives of the famous Sapellia line was a 
short, rather stocky man of perhaps forty-five 
years of age, with a high, bald forehead, a pallid 
complexion, piercing dark eyes, and a mustache 
and Vandyke beard of jet black. He was clad 
in the conventional morning coat, with trousers of 
grey material, and yellow shoes, and wore a white 
orchid in his buttonhole. He greeted his guests 
with true Italian deference and courtesy, kissing 
the hands of the ladies, and bestowing a glance 
of more than usual ardor on the fresh beauty of 
Orma. 

The three plunged without preliminary into a 
continuance of the discussion of the day before, 
the question of the great annual movement of 
laborers from Italy to the States and back again, 
and the effect of such migrations upon the rela- 


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tions of the two nations and upon the tempera¬ 
ment of the migrating parties. Orma thought 
it was the duty of the emigrant to settle in the 
new land and make it his home; Count Sapellia 
took the view that the first duty of any man 
was to the land of his birth, and that the return 
of the Italian laborer to Italy was proof of the 
passionate love of country which distinguished 
the Italian peasant from the people of other 
nations. And from that they passed by easy 
stages to a subject very dear to the heart of the 
Count—the wealth and prestige of the Sapellia 
family, and the extent of his own power and 
influence. 

A remark of the Count’s to the effect that his 
latest business venture was into the realm of 
shipbuilding made Orma think for a moment of 
Eben Lewis and his railroad connection and in¬ 
duced her to make a comparison on the spur of 
the moment which, on mature deliberation, she 
might not have voiced. “Your position in this 
country, Count Sapellia,” she said, “seems to be 
analogous to that of Mr. Lewis in the United 
States. Both of you have, in a manner speaking, 
a finger in nearly every industrial pie, although 
I suppose that here things are on a smaller scale, 
if I may say so without any breach of good 
taste. Comparisons are always odious.” 

“Ah,” said the Count quickly, touched in a 
weak spot. “Over there you have the great 











































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population to work on—the great country—the 
great resources. But here we are older and 
more settled. Our people are more docile—we 
can wield the personal influence in a way I think 
you cannot do over in America. We can sway 
our people—bend them to our will.” 

“Can you really?” asked Orma curiosly. 

For answer the Count made a dramatic ges¬ 
ture, and turning to a telephone that stood on a 
nearby table, he took down the receiver and is¬ 
sued some orders in a low and rapid tone. He 
made several different connections and repeated 
the performance, and when he finally hung up 
the receiver again he turned once more to Orma 
with one of his brilliant smiles. “Now 1 will give 
you a little demonstration,” he said, “of what I, 
Giuseppe Sapellia, can accomplish. I have asked 
my chief men to spread certain rumors—rumors 
about a subject very close to the hearts of the 
Italian people. It is now 2 o’clock. The eve¬ 
ning editions of the principal papers will be on 
the streets in about two hours. You will see 
what happens. Until then perhaps you will be 
my guest in that projected trip to the Coliseum we 
spoke of. We can return in nice time to witness 
the effect of my orders.” 

Both ladies readily agreed and the two hour 
interval was pleasantly spent in an investigation 
of the famous old ruin, the principal features of 
which the Count pointed out with great skill and 






























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pride. So engrossed did the visitors become in 
the wonderful pile and all that the Count had to 
tell them of its past grandeur, that when the 
limousine rolled again into the square where the 
Sapellia Palace stood exclamations of astonish¬ 
ment broke from the ladies at the scene that met 
their gaze. The square was black with a noisy 
and excited throng that surged around the 
clamoring news vendors, eagerly buying up the 
evening editions on which the huge headline was 
scarcely dry. From the points of statues, from 
door-steps, railings, and even lamp-posts, patriotic 
orators' were addressing the throng in fiery ex¬ 
hortation. Everywhere was to be seen and heard 
excited faces, strident voices and gesticulating 
arms and hands. 

The automobile had to proceed at a crawl 
through the mob, and cries of u Viva Sapellia!” 
broke forth now and again as the financier was 
recognized, salutations which the Count 
acknowledged by bowing profoundly, doffing his 
hat and smiling. 

“What has happened?” demanded Orma as 
they left the limousine and made their way with 
difficulty up the palace steps. “Has Italy de¬ 
clared war? or has there been an earthquake?” 

“Ah!” said the Count significantly. “Can it 
be that you have already forgotten my promise 
of a demonstration of power? Do you see that! 
This is my work. Could Mr. Lewis do more?” 



Both ladies gasped. “I don’t think he could,” 
Orma admitted, while the more practical mind 
of Mrs. Gibson suggested: “How about getting 
them quieted down again? Can you do that just 
as easily?” 

“That too you will have a chance of ob¬ 
serving,” said Count Sapellia in a tone of 
triumph, stroking his little black beard, and 
taking in with his keen black eyes the astonish¬ 
ment and varying emotions that chased one 
another across Orma’s countenance. “Tonight 
your commission is to be my guests at the ban¬ 
quet I have arranged in its honor. There you 
will hear me speak again to the public—this time 
directly. And what I say will quiet them—re¬ 
store their confidence—make an end of this—” he 
indicated with a gesture of his hands the noise 
in the square outside which came faintly to their 
ears. 

As Orma looked at the man before her, 
as she observed his exalted mien and the glitter of 
triumph in his eye, and then as her thoughts 
turned to the excited throngs they had just seen 
in the streets below, a sense of acute depression 
came over her. She recalled the last words Es¬ 
mond had spoken to her before she left 
America. “In Europe,” he had said, “you will 
observe many instances where one man controls 
the destiny of millions. You will find these 
powerful leaders are merely human. When you 






































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117 


see how they play with the power they have, 
think of Eben Lewis.” The words came back to 
her mind now and brought with them a sensation 
of guilt—a feeling that she had not given them 
at the time of their utterance, due and proper 
weight. 

She remembered with something akin to shame 
that when those words were spoken her chief 
sentiment had been one of pique and chagrin 
that Esmond’s final message had not been one 
of a personal nature. Unconsciously she had 
hoped to the last that his parting words would 
be something more than a mere last-minute thrust 
at the mission she had undertaken. And so, in 
the disappointment of hearing what he actually 
did say, she had forthwith dismissed the matter 
from her mind and had given it scarcely any 
further thought until the present moment when 
the words had been brought vividly back to her 
by the shocking revelation of Sapellia’s power 
they had just witnessed and which had made her 
think seriously for the first time that perhaps 
Esmond really knew more about the Eben Lewis 
programme than she did. Up to the time when 
she and Mrs. Gibson took their leave Orma was 
disturbed and distraught, and she determined that 
at the banquet the same evening she would pay 
more attention to the inner workings of the 
machine Sapellia controlled than she had been 
doing, and would try and get as much informa- 

















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tion regarding it from the Count himself as pos¬ 
sible. 

As they made their way to their own quarters 
through streets still crowded by excited throngs 
Orma grew more and more disturbed, and even 
the doings of the Eben Lewis commission began 
to wear a sinister air. Her cherished illusions 
♦ were being shattered one by one, and the work 
of Eben Lewis which had always appealed to her 
as of the loftiest nature, began to take on the 
appearance of a nefarious scheme, and to be 
pregnant with deep and dark designs. Her un¬ 
easiness and depression presently reached such a 
pitch that she felt she must unbosom herself to 
someone. Conversation with Mrs. Gibson had 
been impossible in the noise and turmoil of the 
streets, but in the quiet of their sumptuous apart¬ 
ments Orma delivered herself of all that was 
on her mincl and confessed to her companion, in 
a burst of tears and emotion, that she had lost 
her faith in the undertaking, and that what she 
had always regarded as a noble and patriotic 
service to her country was beginning to wear a 
very different air, an air that terrified and de¬ 
pressed her. 

Shrewd old Mrs. Gibson, who had long won¬ 
dered at and been secretly amused by Orma’s 
youthful enthusiasm and earnestness, judged the 
time ripe to disillusionize her young co-worker, 
and to make clear to her the difference between 



theory and practice, between altruistic dreams and 
the cold hard facts of everyday life. To pre¬ 
pare her, in short, for what Mrs. Gibson felt 
would be real usefulness in the world. But first 
of all she deemed it prudent to speak sympatheti¬ 
cally of Orma’s ideals and to encourage her to 
speak her mind freely. 

It worked very well. In the fullness of her 
heart and in her longing for some friendly advice 
Orma confided to the older woman some of the 
arguments Esmond had used which had impressed 
her so strongly, and in particular his final ad¬ 
monition and warning. “You are rather 
interested in this fellow Esmond, aren’t you?” 
Mrs. Gibson queried, observing Orma keenly. 

“Not especially—we are good friends,” Orma 
replied with a slight flush that confirmed Mrs. 
Gibson’s suspicions. “There is nothing personal 
about my feelings I can assure you. But I do 
want to get the right of things.” 

“The mistake you make, my dear,” said Mrs. 
Gibson kindly, seating herself alongside the 
despondent girl and taking hold of her hand, “is 
that you take yourself and things in general too 
seriously. You confuse the practical with the 
theoretical. You decline to take things as you 
find them. You know, as somebody or other 
has observed, while we may sigh for whirlwinds 
we ultimately have to do the best we can with 
the bellows. We are here in Italy for a specific 






























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purpose—to study conditions and gather data. 
We are doing the will of the private individual 
who is paying the piper, and yet that fact need 
not necessarily interfere with the ethics of the 
case. If our Government cannot or will not do 
these necessary things, public-spirited private 
citizens must do them instead. And in such 
cases there will always be somebody to raise the 
cry of personal aggrandizement and self-interest. 
But you should know enough not to let it worry 
you.” The good lady continued with much more 
in the same strain,* Orma, for the most part, 
listened in silence. 

For some time Mrs. Gibson had been aware 
of the infatuation of Count Sapellia for Orma, 
and indeed the Count himself had taken the 
match-making matron into his confidence to the 
extent of requesting her aid in making his ad¬ 
vances to her fair fellow-commissioner. While 
Mrs. Gibson realized that the prospect of Orma’s 
becoming the Countess Sapellia, was remote, yet 
the interest Sapellia bestowed fascinated and 
pleased Mrs. Gibson exceedingly, coupled as it 
was with the thought of the social prestige and 
notoriety she herself would achieve in conse¬ 
quence thereof. As far as she had felt it discreet 
to do so she had promised the Count to use her 
influence on his behalf, and she had registered 
a secret vow that whatever happened Orma 
would not be allowed to throw herself away, 


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I 2 I 


from mistaken motives or illusory ideas, on any 
Jewish adventurer. Fate might play queer 
tricks but this would be plain ridiculousness. And 
so Mrs. Gibson had lost no opportunity of 
throwing her protige and the Count together, 
and of doing all that lay in her power to further 
his cause. And for this the Count was grate¬ 
ful. 

“Whatever you do, my dear, don’t worry, n 
was the good lady’s parting counsel. “No good 
ever came of that. Things are going along very 
nicely, in precisely the manner in which they were 
meant by Mr. Lewis to go. So cheer up, and 
get ready to look your best at the banquet which 
I am told, is going to be a brilliant affair. Count 
Sapellia is really very devoted to you, Orma, as 
no doubt you are aware. It will at least be 
diplomatic to keep him in good humor.” 

Orma made a weary gesture of dissent. “I 
don’t much care about going to the banquet at 
all,” she said. “But as I may learn something 
there I suppose it’s my duty to go. I want to 
have a talk with Count Sapellia if possible, to 
get some more information from him. I think 
I will wear my yellow silk . . . . ” They fell to 
discussing details. 

The banquet, although confined to the mem¬ 
bers of the Eben Lewis commission and a few 
intimate friends of Count Sapellia’s, was never- 
the less a brilliant affair as Mrs. Gibson had pre- 





122 


dieted, and the taste and ingenuity of the Count’s 
retainers and of the Count himself, combined 
with the medieval magnificence of the banqueting 
hall, resulted in a display at once dazzling and 
imposing. Thousands of candles had been placed 
in position in the grand old chandeliers, and 
brought sparkling rainbow flashes from the 
Venetian cut glass, at the same time shedding a 
kind of mellow radiance on the table far below, 
which was also illuminated by candles supported 
in tall candelabra and antique candlesticks of solid 
silver. Everywhere American and Italian flags 
and colors were interwoven and intertwined 
Flowers of the most gorgeous tints were in pro¬ 
fusion, and from a balcony of white marble, 
perched high up on one of the lofty walls, there 
floated the hum of stringed instruments. Orma 
was woman enough to be conscious of a little 
thrill of triumph as the Count conducted her to 
the place of honor by his side at the head of 
the table. After all, this was something to have 
lived for. 

For a time there was a certain amount of 
stiffness and formality about the proceedings, the 
conversation for the most part consisting of 
polite inquiries as to the progress of the work of 
the commission, coupled with eulogistic comments 
on the energy and enterprise of its founder. 
When the speechmaking proper was gotten under 
way, Orma and Mrs. Gibson had an opportunity 



123 


of observing how Count Sapellia was able, by a 
few skillfully chosen sentences and a judicious use 
of such words as ‘misunderstanding,’ ‘incorrect 
interpretation,’ ‘over-zealous press writers’ and 
the like, to set at rest the agitation he himself 
had started earlier in the day, a proceeding that 
made a deep and abiding impression on both of 
them. Even the advent of the toasts, however, 
accompanied as they were by many witty and 
complimentary remarks, did not altogther suc¬ 
ceed in dispelling a sense of reserve and restraint 
that seemed to hang, like a pall, over the pro¬ 
ceedings. A certain touch seemed to be lacking 
that was necessary to set them all at ease. 

The touch was provided ultimately, however, 
hut in a manner that Orma observed with a cer¬ 
tain measure of dismay. The cloud of reserve 
commenced to be broken up when the choice 
wines and liquors with which the table was loaded 
began to circulate more freely. Tongues were 
loosened as if by magic. Polite eyes that had 
been dull and bored grew brighter, and a certain 
amount of jocularity began to be apparent. 
Professor Newlin, in the course of a humorous 
speech, made a facetious reference to the com¬ 
mission’s ‘leisure labors’ which drew much 
laughter and applause. The cue was quickly 
taken up by Dr. Ayers who called them all to 
witness his success in the raising of a first-class 
mustache, which he confessed had called for the 















- 


























124 


exercise of much time and patience. 

There was much more in the same tenor which 
seemed to Orma’s serious mind to lay bare the 
unpleasant fact that most of the members of the 
commission had come to regard themselves and 
their work in a somewhat frivolous light, to¬ 
gether with alarming and suggestive indications 
that they had never taken their duties seriously 
from the very start. A sly reference by one of 
the Count’s guests to Eben Lewis’ avowed anti¬ 
semitism drew forth no rebuke from any of the 
senior members of the commission, and made 
Orma feel still more miserable as she thought of 
Esmond, as she had often found herself doing 
now, and all he had endured in the trenches, de¬ 
fending the life and the honor of the country 
he loved so well, and of his long fight to rescue 
the property of Mother Mulvaney and thus 
redeem his promise to his dead comrade-in- 
arms. Could it really be that Esmond had been 
right after all regarding the real nature and 
purpose of the Eben Lewis programme? 

A sudden distaste for the glitter and profusion 
before her came upon Orma, and the doubt as to 
the validity of Eben Lewis’ motives and her own 
part in furthering his scheme, that had been 
gnawing in her bosom for days, rose afresh in 
her mind: the arguments that Esmond had 
used, the prophetic vision and the poetry of his 
race kindling in his eyes as he spoke, as he con- 



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125 


demned in virile language Eben Lewis and the 
system he stood for. How fiercely he had ac¬ 
cused the magnate, and indeed all such magnates, 
of ‘playing at God with his fellows’; ‘setting one 
up, and putting another down’. How bitter he 
had been about ‘individualism run amuck’ and 
‘unbridled lust for power’! How scathing in 
condemnation of ‘making machines and 
machinery the masters of men for mere per¬ 
sonal aggrandisement’! Scales seemed to fall 
from Orma’s eyes, and the truth that had been 
simmering within her for many weeks now burst 
forth into the clearest flame. She had been 
following the wrong path! 

The Eben Lewis way was not the right or the 
real way. ‘Organization is death,’ Esmond had 
quoted passionately (as he so often did) from his 
favorite H. G. Wells. ‘What you organize you 
destroy. Organization is like killing cattle. If 
you do not kill some, the herd is just waste. But 
you must not kill all. or you kill the herds. The 
unorganized side of life is the real life’. The 
end did not justify the means. What did it mat¬ 
ter if material wealth were piled up to the very 
skies? They were achieving nothing if they 
were at the same time sounding the death knell 
of individual initiative and character. That 
alone mattered. Organization, with all the 
danger it implied, the danger of curbing and 
cramping and even killing altogether the priceless 








































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and unique self in each, instead of being kept at 
the strictest minimum, was being pushed to an al¬ 
together senseless maximum for no loftier motive 
than mere material accummulation. “Can you 
not see where it is leading?” Esmond had de¬ 
manded heatedly. “Can you not see your indi¬ 
vidual, when this thing has reached its logical 
outcome and the Lewises of the nation have got¬ 
ten everything down to a question of charts, 
prints, systems, cams, pinions, jigs and fixtures 
possessed of a cheap motor car, a model dwell¬ 
ing, an ox, an ass, and everything that is his 
neighbor’s, inquiring dumbly, with blank, lack¬ 
lustre eyes, ‘what have you done with my price¬ 
less treasure, my real self, my soul, my personal¬ 
ity? I cannot find it any more’. And indeed 
it will be beyond finding, atrophied and dead, 
lost beyond recall.” 

“You can see it happening all around you if 
you use your eyes,” he had declared vehemently. 
“Look at the dwindling ranks of our poets, 
writers, philosophers and sages, and at the 
swollen and fast-growing army of sycophants, 
time servers and backs who are supplanting them. 
Even poor John Chinaman is found remarking 
gently: ‘While we give you Western people 

credit for your knowledge of science and its 
application to industry, we are nevertheless of 
the opinion that your steam and your electricity 
have gotten into your brains, and that machines 


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127 


are your masters rather than your servants’.” 
He had also quoted Carlyle in his zeal - modified 
to suit the needs of the case. “God did not 
mean his American people to perish beneath so 
great a load of Mammonism,” he had declared 
fervently. “No, He meant something other than 
that.” She recalled how foolish much of his 
talk had seemed to her then. But now she 
seemed to appreciate its significance. 

They had left the banqueting table by this 
time, and she and Mrs. Gibson were being shown 
some of the wonders of the palace by the voluble 
and attentive Count. So busy was Orma with 
the tumult of her own thoughts that she scarcely 
heard much of the Count’s declamation, and 
it was only when Mrs. Gibson announced suavely: 
“Well, I understand Miss Williams wants to have 
a personal chat with you, Count,” and withdrew 
gracefully from the scene, that Orma came to 
herself. She had mentioned casualy to the elder 
lady that she intended, at the first opportunity, 
to ask the Count a few straight questions, but she 
did not anticipate the affair taking the form of 
the tete-a-tete it now promised. It filled her 
momentarily with a sense of annoyance. Later 
on she learned that the Count had addressed a 
special request to Mrs. Gibson that she would 
leave them alone together, a request to which that 
lady had not been sorry to accede. 

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library which Orma felt must be far removed 
from the banqueting chamber, for she had been 
dimly aware that they had wandered through 
many passages before reaching it. It was but dimly 
illuminated by a large heavily-shaded reading 
lamp that stood on a small table in the center 
of the room, and by the dancing light of a 
cherry fire that burned in the large open fire¬ 
place. Orma seated herself in a leather easy 
chair not far from the blaze, and the Count 
disposed his somewhat corpulent figure on a stool 
near her feet. Becoming aware of a slight 
sense of embarrassment Orma proceeded rather 
hurriedly to go over some of the points on 
which she desired information, but she had not 
gotten very far when the Count interrupted her. 

“Pardon me, Miss Williams,” he said a trifle 
thickly, his black eyes gleaming strangely in the 
fire-light. “Don’t think me rude—but I can’t 
let these precious moments be wasted in talk 
about the masses and their welfare. It is about 
something else I wish to talk—something nearer 
to the heart.” 

With an increasing sense of uneasiness Orma 
realized that something was about to happen she 
would rather did not take place. She paused in 
her speech and eyed the Count with a measure 
of anxiety. “I merely sought this interview in 
order to get certain points cleared up,” she was 
beginning in a dignified tone when the Count 






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Sapellia interrupted once more, and ere she 
could do anything to stop him had plunged into 
a torrent of excited language, the purpose of 
which was to the effect that not only his heart, 
his honor, and his family name were at her feet, 
but his wealth, his position, and his influence as 
well. “From the first day,” he declared dra¬ 
matically, “your charms overwhelmed me. I try 
to fight against it—I cannot fight against it. It 
grows day by day. I learn that you are not 
rich as so many Americans are—that you are but 
a servant of Mr. Eben Lewis. You the servant 
of anyone! I shall make you a ruler over 
many servants—over many people. You speak 
of the welfare of the masses! Bah! What do we 
care at heart for the masses? No more than 
they care for us. They are dogs who must be 
led and governed. It is good to speak fine words 
about their welfare—it pleases them. But you 
and I know better than that. Ask Mr. Eben 
Lewis. He knows better than that. The power 
must be in strong hands. I have much of it in 
my hands. It will be yours to wield. You will 
be a queen who lacks only a crown!” He at¬ 
tempted to take her hand, but she rose hurriedly 
to her feet in disgust and confussion. Count 
Sapellia had risen too. 

“I think I have heard enough, Count Sapellia,” 
Orma was beginning, but ere she could quite 
realize what was happening the Count’s arms 














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130 


were about her, and his face, in which passion, 
wine fumes, pride of power, and personal vanity 
blended to create an exprssion that was almost 
satanic, was thrust against her own. How she 
managed to break from his embrace Orma never 
quite knew, and of the wild dashing to and fro 
that followed she had only a hazy recollection 
after it was all over. It was only by overturning 
a table hearing a large, costly vase, with the 
crash consequent thereupon, that the attention of 
an attendant in some anti-chamber was attracted 
and brought him hurrying to the spot, thus giving 
Orma a chance to recover her wits. “You will 
escort me once more to the banqueting hall, 
please,” she said to the astonished footman in a 
tone that he did not dare to disregard. The man 
cast a quick glance of apprehension towards his 
master, who muttered something unintelligible 
from the depths of the chair into which he had 
thrown himself, and proceeded to lead the way 
with Orma in close attendance. 

Mrs. Gibson was discovered not far off, but 
neither to her nor to any of her fellow members 
did Orma relate what had transpired. She ex¬ 
cused herself on the ground of sudden illness from 
further participation in the evening’s proceedings, 
and returned immediately to her room in the 
hotel. Before daylight her decision was taken 
—she would cut loose not only from the com¬ 
mission but from Eben Lewis and all his pro- 











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gramme. Ere many hours had passed she had 
made a reservation on a steamer leaving Genoa 
for New York in the course of the same week. 

As early as possible on the next day Orma 
had an interview with Dr. Ayers and startled 
that worthy gentleman considerably by begging 
to be released from any further part in the work 
on hand, coupled with a request for indefinite 
leave of absence partly on the score of health and 
partly to carry out a projected visit to relatives 
in the south of France. Permission was granted 
somewhat grudgingly, and the news telegraphed 
to Eben Lewis forthwith. What he might have 
thought of it Orma did not stay to ascertain. For 
with all possible speed she made her way to 
Genoa and was soon aboard ship once more 
headed for home. And the day on which her 
steamer glided slowly from the harbor at 
Genoa, another steamer, bearing the name of 
Milton Esmond on its list of passengers, came 
quietly in and was fast to the same moorings. 



f 

























CHAPTER XI 

ORMA MAKES A RESOLUTION 


With the aid of liberal tips and considerable 
good luck Orma was speedily installed in her 
stateroom aboard the “City of Sparta,” where 
she was glad to be free from the embarrassing 
questions and proffered aid of her late fellow 
committee members. She wanted to be alone. 
Rain had fallen steadily for twenty-four hours, 
and as Orma made her way from her stateroom 
to the deck above, the clouds seemed to merge 
with the evil smelling piers and the forest of 
masts and funnels by which the ship was sur¬ 
rounded. Yet even the dismal nature of the 
scene seemed to add to her sense of gratitude 
and to accord with her mood. The very 
squawking and fluttering of the sea gulls seemed 
strangely comforting to her troubled conscience. 
At length came the lifting of the gangways, the 
final good byes, and the hauling and jockeying 
of small tugs. Almost imperceptibly the great 
ship drew away from the quayside, the tugs 
fussing and churning. A woman on the pier drew 
out and waved a small Stars and Stripes amid 
laughter and cheers. Presently the tugs cast off, 
and the ship headed out to sea, and the land 
began to recede. The voyage had begun. 

Orma withdrew early from the deck and 
busied herself with unpacking such things as she 



























i33 


might require during the passage. With a bitter 
smile she recalled the corresponding scene on the 
voyage out. Then she had ordered a stand 
for her typewriter, an extra chair, trays for her 
manuscript paper, and shelves for her books. 
Her thoughts flashed back to the patronizing 
smile Mrs. Gibson had bestowed upon her then, 
a smile of real significance which she now 
began to understand for the first time. The 
same typewriter was at her feet encased in a 
modest box. For a moment Orma glanced at it, 
then deliberately pushed it into a corner behind 
her traveling bags, where note pads, pencils, 
books and papers had been stowed away. Her 
literary work had for the time being become 
repugnant to her. She felt that she did not 
want to write any more. 

In this reaction of spirit an older instinct 
came to the surface, and she turned with some¬ 
thing like eagerness to the face powder, perfume, 
and the thousand-odd implementa that adorn the 
feminine dressing case. For a few moments she 
considered the array, her eyes delighting in the 
artistic foreign labels, and her brain seduced by 
the delicate and fragrant whiffs of perfume that 
ascended to her nostrils. Then her gaze sought 
the mirror. For a fleeting moment the dead¬ 
weight seemed lifted, and her heart fluttered with 
the most primitive of feminine joys. For the 
first time it seemed she did not look for the 


























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134 


studious wrinkle that she was wont to regard as 
the mark of the intellectual, and which she had 
hitherto prized. The high forehead still bespoke 
abnormal literary power, but now she deliberately 
disengaged a sinuous strand of tawney hair and 
let it dangle dangerously near her eye. Yes, she 
was beautiful. She had long been instinctively 
aware of the charm she exercised over men, but 
for years she had sought to convince herself that 
high intellectual attainment was the real secret. 
Now the very thought mortified her. Hadn’t 
Esmond tried desperately to point out the error 
of her ways? Hadn’t her stubborn certainty that 
she was right been the actual cause of their 
estrangement? 

And then there was Count Sapellia. What 
a fool he had made of her! Encouraging her by 
appearing to pay serious attention to her simple 
babblings about things of which she knew nothing, 
and keeping up this farce simply because she was 
young and beautiful! Orma flung herself full 
length on her berth and buried her head in the 
pillows. She had been a fool! Why had Pro¬ 
fessor Ayers—Mrs. Gibson—all—everyone en¬ 
couraged her in her foolish work? Had they 
been laughing at her all the time? mocking her 
altruistic notions and naive concern for the wel¬ 
fare of the masses? The thought made her burn 
from head to foot. 

At last out of the nightmare of self pity, tor- 



135 


ment, accusations, and condemnations emerged 
the lone figure of Eben Lewis. In her revulsion 
of feeling all the rest, even Count Sapellia, faded 
into insignificance beside the figure she now re¬ 
garded as the Arch Conspirator of them all. 
Eben Lewis was the man. He was the original 
sinner. It was all perfectly clear. He had 
sent her to Italy simply as an ornament, 
with Mrs. Gibson as a kind of weak 
chaperone. All right. Eben Lewis would pay- 
pay—pay! Orma clenched her hands until the 
pink finger tips were white as marble. Eben 
Lewis had tricked her—had capitalized upon her 
ability to write—had sought to bend her every 
effort to his own ends! Very well. She would 
show him how potent was this weapon he had 
sharpened for his own use. He would feel the 
sting of his own whip! He had fooled her. She 
would repay him in kind. He wanted writing. 
Very good. He would get it. 







CHAPTER XII 

EBEN LEWIS GIVES A LEAD 


At the Lewis headquarters, Eben Lewis, riding 
high on the crest of wealth and power, had as¬ 
sembled his chief men in conference, as was his 
custom when important questions of policy had 
to be decided upon. Lean, grey, wolf-life, he 
sat at the head of the council table and asked 
questions. To the editor of the Pendulum he 
said: “Reports have been brought to me of the 
reaction throughout the United States the an¬ 
nouncement of our anti-racial campaign has 
brought forth. The time seems ripe to make 
this the real issue. The field has been prepared. 
Now is the time to strike.” 

The gentleman addressed, originally christened 
Ivan Merrick, but since his advent with the Pen¬ 
dulum known as Ivan Merritt, made reply: 
“Perhaps it would be well to wait something 
authentic from the commission in Europe bear¬ 
ing on this particular question. I would advise 
that in this issue we make public announcement 
of the actual existence of the commission, and 
state exactly what its aims and objects are.” 

Eben Lewis considered the suggestion for 
several moments, and then invited comments. 
John Mitchell, financial expert, objected on the 
ground that an immediate campaign would in¬ 
terfere with the regular flow of orders, and 






















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i37 


might upset the delicate curves he had projected 
on his chart of business prospects. Stratton, the 
political adviser, lent his support to Ivan Mer¬ 
ritt. “If we are to solidify our political position,” 
he said, “we must drive home the wedge we 
have decided upon. Now is our opportunity. 
What with high prices, falling markets, and labor 
discontent, public opinion is sufficently irritable 
and worked up. It must have a vent. There is 
always a scapegoat in times like these that can 
be used to great advantage. Someone must be 
blamed. Mr. Merritt is right. All history 
shows that certain races have in the past borne 
the brunt of reformation and saved the names 
and reputations of rulers. Basically the situation 
is not greatly changed today. Blame the Jews. 
It is the obvious course. They represent only one 
percent of our population, and are always a good 
target for popular resentment. It is surprising 
that no one has had the foresight to play this 
political trump card in this country before now. 
You will find it is an effective one—it will sweep 
Mr. Lewis into the highest office in the land. 
And as for hurting business—there is nothing to 
that, nothing at all. It will build our business.” 
“You comprehend my original plan in a way that 
gratifies me very much.” said Eben Lewis. “You 
will make the announcement and feature it. We 
will follow in the next issue with the first state¬ 
ment from the commission. I will have cables 





•38 


sent.” 

The discussion was turned to other matters. 
Production costs were reviewed, export and im¬ 
port problems considered, reports read, and reso¬ 
lutions adopted. In due time the council pre¬ 
pared to adjourn. 

“One more point,” Mr. Mitchell suggested, 
“that ought to be cleared up. You may remem¬ 
ber a year ago this committee decided that bank¬ 
ing reform would be the most popular plea to 
take to the people? Well, we started a brisk 
campaign at that time; vivid editorials swept the 
country. Have we abandoned this plan entirely?” 

“On the contrary,” said Eben Lewis, “we have 
no intention of dropping so important a matter. 
We must continually have new issues, and they 
must be popular. The great thing is to keep the 
public keyed up to a state of expectancy. They 
do not quite know what is coming next, and it 
makes them interested. Play up strongly on the 
reform stuff. That always takes well. If we 
have been lax on the subject of banking since the 
commission left for Europe, we had better repair 
the error right away. How about it, Merritt?” 

Merritt shifted in his chair and knitted his 
brow in thought. Long experience in dealing 
with the public had taught him that quite fre¬ 
quently suggestions given out with an appearance 
of casualness were often fraught with tremendous 
possibilities. They had eased up on the banking 









. 

. 






139 


situation in the recent issues; to revive it they 
would have to bring out something specific on the 
question; something with a strong public appeal. 
And it would at the same time have to appeal to 
Eben Lewis himself. Merritt knew his man. 
“Can you give me a suggestion, Mr. Lewis?” he 
asked diplomatically. 

“I think,” Lewis replied, “that some specific 
instance of rapacity or unfair dealing would be 
more profitable at this time than further articles 
of a general nature-some particular case con¬ 
nected with the State Banks, say. Let me see. 
There’s that Oklahoma business. Too bad Miss 
Williams isn’t here to write about it. She fol¬ 
lowed it for over a year, I think. Couldn’t you 
get it written up? I believe she left sufficient 
notes and some manuscript that might be useful.” 

Thus it was arranged, and Merritt undertook 
to get the thing done. The meeting adjourned 
forthwith. 






. 





CHAPTER XIII 
EARL ROGERS’ DISCOVERY 


It was the day of parting at Mother Mul- 
vaney’s. Singly and in groups the boarders came 
into the dining room to bid its old Irish landlady 
a fond farewell. Miss Wescott hovered about 
until the last of her fellow boarders left; then she 
availed herself of the opportunity to talk without 
being overheard. 

“You must be quite happy, Mrs. Mulvaney to 
know that you are not going to keep a boarding 
house this winter.” Her manner indicated that 
she had much to say if encouraged only a little. 

“It is glad I am, all right,” Mother Mulvaney 
answered, innocently enough furnishing the very 
lead Miss Wescott desired; “but it’s just a little 
worried I am too, not hearing from me boy, 
Esmond, away these three weeks, and even Earl 
Rogers hasn’t come back.” 

“Earl Rogers, did you say?” Miss Wescott re¬ 
marked, an “I thought so” expression spreading 
over her face. “I really didn’t know that Earl 
Rogers was at all interested in your affairs until 
I heard someone make a remark at the dinner 
table last night.” 

“Sure and it’s a good boy he is too,” Mother 
Mulvaney sensed the necessity of defining the 
youth, Earl, who had so long been a source of 
irritation to Miss Wescott; “and I don’t know 























































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what me boy Esmond would have been doing 
without him.” 

“It seems,” Miss Wescott went on, acknow¬ 
ledging the tribute only by failing to repress a 
frown that clouded her face, “that I have been 
very severely criticized sometimes for not being 
as enthusiastic over Earl Rogers as some of your 
boarders. Perhaps I should say nothing now, 
but I am going to show you something, for your 
own sake, that I hoped you would find out for 
yourself. I only learned yesterday that he might 
be, in a way, responsible for your—your giving up 
the boarding house.” 

Miss Wescott fumbled at her bag and was 
about to produce a clipping from a newspaper. 
“You have really given up the boarding house?” 
she continued. 

Poor Mother Mulvaney was near frantic with 
suspense. “Sure and I have,” she answered. 

“And is it too late for you to take a new 
lease? Couldn’t you start running it again?” 
Miss Wescott persisted. 

“Holy Mither, and you do be having me 
crazy for waiting. What’s it you’re after show¬ 
ing me about Earl Rogers?” 

“Only that his supposed wealth in Pennsyl¬ 
vania seems to be greatly over-estimated.” 

Miss Wescott finally produced the clipping 
from the Morning Telegraph and Mother Mul¬ 
vaney read: 

































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142 


“OIL WEALTH DISAPPEARS” 

“Following a series of catastrophes in the new 
Shore Line oil field of Eastern Pennsylvania, 
three wells recently brought in by a syndicate 
headed by young Earl Rogers of New York have 
all gone off production. No. i well has sanded up 
and it is a question if it will ever be reopened 
for production—” 

Mother Mulvaney read thus far and no 
further. The flood of tears, always so near the 
surface, welled to her eyes and splashed on the 
bare boards of the table. Her voice as she 
tried to speak came strange and weak. Miss 
Wescott was almost moved to an expression of 
genuine sympathy for the old lady. 

“There, there, now don’t feel badly,” she 
urged awKwardly. “I tried, goodness knows, 
all last year to indicate that Earl Rogers was not 
to be trusted too far. I hope it isn’t too late; 
I am sure your boarders would all come back.” 

But Mother Mulvaney didn’t hear the words. 
Seeming tired and old she sank deeper in her 
chair and let her head fall heavily into her folded 
arms. Miss Wescott hovered about uncomfort¬ 
ably, continuing to talk, but after a while realized 
that her confused words were not heard. 

“Please be going away. I don’t know what 
it’s all about, but if me boy Esmond was only 
here, if he hadn’t gone away—but he’ll be com¬ 
ing back; maybe it’s all right.” 



143 


Whereupon Miss Wescott departed. 

Left alone Mother Mulvaney muttered to her¬ 
self : “Sure and that’s why he wrote me boy 
Milton that letter. Something told me I should 
be after reading it. Me poor boy Milton! Off 
after that Orma Williams when everything is 
ruined here. Orma Williams—sure and I don’t 
believe she was ever caring a mite for him. She’s 
after doing anything her magazine and papers 
is wantin’, and she’s been using me boy Milton 
for inspiring her writings as she said.” A look 
of pain came into the eyes. “I’m thinking now 
she won’t even be seeing him when he gets to 
Europe.” 

She rose from the squeaky chair and took from 
the sideboard a large green bag which contained 
all the family papers, pictures, and “keepsakes” 
dear to her heart. There too, on the top, was 
Esmond’s mail. A moment she hesitated, then 
took the letter marked, “To Milton Esmond 
from Earl Rogers,” and in the corner, “Impor¬ 
tant-Personal.” 

“Sure and if it’s important to me boy Milton, 
it’s the world and all to Mither Mulvaney,” she 
muttered, and tore open the envelope and read: 

“Dear Milton: I have just had tough news 
from the wells in Pennsylvania. Thank heaven 
I sent John Grant the money today that we 
figured would be necessary to secure options in 
Oklahoma. Hope no more will be required, as 









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144 


it seems three of my wells here are going to 
quit paying money for a while. Don’t know how 
bad it is yet, but am leaving at once to find out. 
Will probably be gone a month. Hope this 
letter will not startle you, but under the cir¬ 
cumstances would suggest that you go back to 
Oklahoma and join Grant, instead of taking your 
trip to Europe—if you really seriously consider 
such a thing. I am asking this for no other 
reason than that it is important that we make 
the money I have sent to Oklahoma do the job. 

“I’ll be busy here and if I don’t hear from you 
I’ll know everything is O. K. But don’t hesi¬ 
tate to write me of any slip-ups. 

“Address for the present, and probably for the 
next month, Shoreline, Pa.” 

Mother Mulvaney finished reading the letter. 
“And he left a full hour before the letter got to 
me! The Devil’s been working since Michael 
and father left me. And the Devil’s at it now 
harder than ever!” 

She relapsed again and found comfort in tears. 
She was still seated at the table when Earl 
Rogers found his way from the street into the 
dining room. What he saw momentarily stunned 
him. The bare walls, dust already gathered about 
the floor, carpets up, Mother Mulvaney seated by 
the dining room table with her head buried in 
her arms and her grey hair falling loosely over 
her shoulders and arms, weeping and muttering 




i45 


in despair, all presented a picture of despondency 
that shocked and unnerved the usually care-free, 
cheerful Earl. His own affairs had left him 
none too buoyant; the present sight reduced him 
to down-right wretchedness. But only for a 
moment as Mother Mulvaney sensed his presense 
and greeted him with mingled fear and hope. Earl 
found his bearings and his presence at length 
restored a semblance of reason to the bare room. 

“Everything will be all right, Mother,” Earl 
comforted, “and where is Milton? I haven’t 
heard from him. Did he get my letter?” Earl 
looked over Mother Mulvaney’s shoulder to the 
letter on the table. “Why, there it is now; 
hasn’t he seen it?” 

Mother Mulvaney straightened herself, wiped 
the tears from her eyes and started to explain 
the presence of the opened letter and the ab¬ 
sence of Milton. 

“But I can’t understand,” Earl broke in, 
“where is Milton?” 

“Sure and he left for Europe an hour before 
your letter came. I was just this minute readin’ 
it for the first time meself, when that schoolma’m 
was bringing in the newspaper story about you 
losing all your money. Is it true, and have you 
lost everything? But sure and ye have—I see 
it in your eyes. More’s the pity, and sure it 
looks the Divil himself is after everybody that 
tried to help poor Mother Mulvaney.” 


I 








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146 


Roger’s face was indeed a picture of despair. 
“You say Esmond has gone? Have you heard 
from him since he has been away?” he gasped— 
“have you heard from Orma Williams?” 

“Nary a word, and I don’t think we will be. 
She was a nice girl, but I’m thinking the Devil’s 
been working through her for all of that. First 
she starts arguing with me boy Milton and getting 
him to feeling bad from the start. There’s some¬ 
thing between the three of ’em: Eben Lewis, 
Orma Williams and me boy Milton. I’m not 
knowing what it is, but Eben Lewis was for 
saying something to me boy Milton that like to 
made him crazy. He looked like an old man 
when he came back from that man’s office. And 
then he was for forgetting everybody and every¬ 
thing but Orma Williams, and I think she’s at 
the bottom of it all. I think she’s been making 
a fool out of me boy Milton.” 

“Things are not a lot better in Pennsylvania.” 
As Rogers’ mind went back to the oil trouble his 
features twisted nervously and his hands clutched. 
“I guess I am losing everything there. I was 
thinking I had been lucky. Saved a little out of 
the wreck. I was hoping Milton had fixed every¬ 
thing. Now you say he’s gone. Gone crazy 
over a girl! ihat’s tough. Always something 
like that to ruin a fellow, isn’t there? I don’t 
know her very well. She is always quiet and all 
right at the table. Fact is, I liked her. But she 




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147 


must have meant something—a great deal, I 
guess, to Milton. Do you think he has plumb 
forgotten everything about Alder Valley?” 

“Sure and I don’t know. He was thinking he 
had plenty of time, of that I am sure. He never 
would have left after everything you have done!” 

“Everything I’ve done,” Earl Rogers answered 
irritatedly. “And what do you think of this? 
He reached in the inside pocket of his coat and 
drew out a heavily sealed envelope, bearing can¬ 
celed registration stamps, unfolded a legal sheet, 
and said, “Here’s what has been done—Esmond’s 
plan carried out by John Grant. Listen.” 
Hurriedly Earl skimmed over the details: 

“Everything fixed in Alder Valley awaiting 
the maturity of the mortgages and notes, which 
will happen about the time the broom corn crop 
comes in. A clever way the bankers have of 
making it look like they depended on the crop 
for their money! The biggest joke of the year 
is that they will get their money when the crops 
mature. This of course is the last thing in the 
world that they expect. Their plan is apparent 
now; there is no chance of having made a mis¬ 
take. They fully expect to demand payment 
when the crops are ready for sale. As soon as 
the farmers fail to pay, they will take steps to 
foreclose and buy in the oil land.” 

Earl Rogers continued reading the letter. At 
length—“So there it is, Mother, see the fix we 































148 


are in? Esmond should have warned Grant that 
the money I have already sent is all the money 
I ever can send. Instead of that, John Grant has 
gone ahead with the full plan, figuring I am a 
millionaire. He should have been warned.” 

It was Earl’s turn now to feel the panic that 
Mother Mulvaney had fallen victim to earlier in 
the day. Earl looked about the room. The op¬ 
pressive atmosphere of bare walls and empty 
rooms added its gloom to his depression. Every¬ 
thing seemed to hinge on Esmond, not that he 
could do anything at the present time, but that 
he could have done something had he not rushed 
off after Orma Williams weeks earlier. Con¬ 
found Orma Williams! Earl Rogers and 
Mother Mulvaney agreed that after all she was 
the one responsible. 

“But what drove Esmond to follow her?” 
Rogers asked himself aloud for the fourth time. 

“Sure an’ it’s what that Lewis was saying to 
him that did it,” Mother Mulvaney replied. “It 
was a fool he was for talking to Eben Lewis. 
The man must have said something about Orma 
too—anyhow when he got back he was off for 
Italy just like that, quick as scat; hardly said 
goodbye. I’m not for knowin’ if the girl loves 
him or not, but 1 can’t see how she could have 
been fooling him all this time, and now draws 
him off to Italy the while everything is for 
going to the devil hereabouts.” 



















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149 


A sudden timid knocking at the door inter¬ 
rupted the speakers, who turned to behold Orma 
Williams herself, cringing in the doorway. Non- 
pulsed at the scene of desolation where she ap¬ 
parently expected to find the cheerful, homey 
dining room of weeks gone by. And Orma had un 
avoidably overheard the remarkes made concern¬ 
ing her. Earl Rogers greeted her frankly but 
made no effort to disguise his worried, anxious 
expression. Mother Mulvaney’s simple honesty 
and frankness knew no diplomacy, and between 
the two Orma -found herself bewildered and de¬ 
fenseless. 

Esmond had followed her to Italy! His going 
had entailed wreck and ruin to the Alder Valley 
project! Mother Mulvaney and Earl blamed 
her. One by one the truths came crowding in 
upon her already overtaxed and depressed mind. 

For days she had written her denunciation of 
Eben Lewis—had manoeuvered and schemed and 
planned until it seemed certain she would be able 
to run the article in the Pendulum without interfer¬ 
ence. True the story would later be denied when 
Eben Lewis found how she had betrayed him, 
but the truth in the story itself could not be dis¬ 
credited. It bristled with truth and facts. Hope¬ 
fully she had started for Mother Mulvaney’s in a 
spirit of humiliation and repentance—ready to 
greet Milton Esmond the man—and admit her 
error. 




























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150 


Words deserted her. Guilt fairly shouted 
from her flushed face and her downcast eyes. 
Almost abruptly she turned toward the door, 
ignoring the half apologies and offers to share 
the mutual wretchedness of the sorely pressed 
Rogers and Mother Mulvaney. She heard them 
say they were leaving for Oklahoma; then she 
left the room. 

Again on the street, Orma, dazed and hurt, 
wandered to a subway station and huddled her¬ 
self into the corner of a hard iron bench until she 
could collect her thoughts. The damp sepulchral 
air of the tunnel blew cold against her hot cheeks 
and the roaring of the subway trains seemed to 
deaden the turmoil in her mind. 

Train after train roared past or came to a 
grinding, shrieking stop at the long cement stair¬ 
way, before reason returned to Orma Williams. 
Then with a start she realized that the cars 
were bulging with the usual five o’clock crowds 
of shop girls, clerks and other toilers, home¬ 
ward bound. Night was indeed falling. Then 
from her sub-conscious mind, it seemed, came the 
decision. Without conscious process of reasoning 
she opened her bag and deposited the little 
green subway ticket that she had been clutching 
nervously for hours past. With resolute step 
and calm determination she left the subway and 
made once more toward Mother Mulvaney’s 
boarding house. With difficulty she wormed her 













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way across the main thoroughfares and on to¬ 
ward Boon street. 

A taxicab careening dangerously neat the curb¬ 
ing of the street Orma was about to enter swerved 
to the right, throwing the occupants heavily 
against the side of the car. 

“Would have sworn that was Orma Williams! 
Such confounded driving-might have killed her!” 
Earl Rogers pressed his face against the rear 
window and peered anxiously into the crowd. 
“Can’t see her now—would have sworn it was 
she.” 

“Shure and we’re both seein’ things, I’m 
thinkin.’ Me ould eyes ain’t what they used to 
be, but it’s sartin I am that me boy Milton it was 
whom I saw down the street this minute past!” 
Mother Mulvaney replied. 

“Hardly probable—hardly probable—you’re 
just worked up. Guess I am too. Anyhow, Es¬ 
mond will get in touch with my office if by any 
chance he has returned. He will find full de¬ 
tails there. We can’t delay another day—must get 
to Oklahoma.” 

The taxi sped on. 

And on the door step of the old Mulvaney 
boarding house Orma Williams met Milton Es¬ 
mond. 




152 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE BREAKING OF THE STRANGLE 
HOLD. 

Alder Valley will long remember the memor¬ 
able late autumn days of 19—. Broom corn was 
a drug on the market. Farmers from other 
sections of the state who had abandoned their 
broom corn fields for more profitable crops and 
broom corn merchants all agreed there had never 
been a worse year in prospect for the Alder Val¬ 
ley farmers. It was well known also that the 
banks held mortgages on most of the farms. As 
the crop matured so did the mortgages, with 
speculation and feeling running high as to what 
the outcome would be. 

Then it was that John Grant and Earl Rogers 
played the last card of their woefully short hand. 
John Grant had held a few options from the start; 
now he boldly entered the market to secure 
what remained, but unexpectedly ran into competi¬ 
tion with the local banks at the very start. Intend¬ 
ing to bid only enough for the corn to enable the 
farmers to liquidate their loans, Rogers and 
Grant found it necessary to meet the bids on the 
part of the banks ranging from five times the 
amount they had expected to pay. True they had 
secured options on the land, but these options also 
called for large payments of money in addition 
to the purchasing of the broom corn crop. 



153 


Here again the well laid plans Esmond had 
originated went astray. The whole idea behind 
the factory had been a desire to ensnare the 
banks into endeavoring, through the factory, to 
again gain control of the farmers’ land. Instead, 
the banks went boldly into the field and openly 
competed. Then too the broom corn factory rep¬ 
resented the only logical excuse for the interest 
in the farmer’s land and crops exhibited by Grant 
and Rogers. 

As an ostensible reason for the frantic bidding- 
in of the corn crops, Earl Rogers and John 
Grant exhibited the. plans of the new broom 
corn factory, a structure which it was proclaimed 
would be a great benefit to all of the farmers 
in the valley and a consistent money maker in 
the future. While against this structure the 
banks directed their attack. 

At the end of the week Grant and Rogers 
seemed hopelessly beaten. The banks had se¬ 
cured options on practically all of the broom 
corn crop that was important, but they had as 
yet paid no money for it. Their options called 
for payment on delivery to them of the crop 
and after the first week the deliveries began to 
come in. In every case the banks issued certifi¬ 
cates of deposit, and credit only. At this stage 
Milton Esmond unexpectedly arrived in Alder 
Valley. 

But Esmond had not spent two years studying 

















































154 


the banking system in vain. Simultaneously with 
his appearance in Alder Valley came a series of 
remarkable editorials in Eben Lewis’ paper, the 
Pendulum. At first the editorials were passed 
over as so much propaganda; but with Esmond’s 
return the Pendulum was circulated in Alder 
Valley at a rate greater than ever before. In 
fact, there was a copy in every household, and 
the editorial on the banks in particular was 
marked. The first one, “The bar to Prosperity,” 
opened the attack with these stirring words: 

“All the various banking acts and the Federal 
Reserve Act itself, as it stands today, are but 
patches on a financial system that can be made 
practically perfect by a small dose of American 
common sense properly administered. 

“What is necessary and how to do it in order 
to set the wheels of industry humming and re¬ 
store prosperity will be clearly shown in future 
editorials.” 

Even Esmond’s intimate associates failed at 
the first to enthuse. “Remember,” Esmond 
urged, “that these editorials are being read all 
over the United States.” 

“But how will that help us?” Rogers de¬ 
manded. 

“The banks here have less than io percent 
in actual gold to redeem their committments,” 
Esmond replied, “Before they can pay these 
farmers they will have to call upon Eastern 


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155 


capital. Watch what this series of articles will 
do to their credit in the East.” 

The editorials became stronger and stronger. 
The second to appear came out boldly proving 
that the medium of exchange is a public utility. 
Nothing radical was demanded. A plain state¬ 
ment of facts “that the power to grant or deny 
a loan, and so the power to control the medium 
of exchange, rests with the finance committee of 
the board of directors of the bank. And 
because the bank’s credit, which this committee 
controls,” the editorial went on, “is the medium 
of exchange, and because the use of the medium 
is necessary in every walk of life, it is clear that 
on the decision of this committee depends in¬ 
dividual liberty, success and happiness, as well 
as national efficiency and progress.” 

When the third article, under the caption, “The 
Industrial Straight-Jacket,” appeared occupying 
more space than its two predecessors, press dis¬ 
patches began to circulate in which mention was 
made of the stirring editorials on the banking 
system. 

The latest article declared in eloquent 
language: 

“The private control of the medium of ex¬ 
change is a constant bid for credit restrictions 
which invariably brings on recurring periods of 
hard times, and until the medium of exchange is 
freed from private control, the dominating pri- 










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!56 

vate interests will continue periodically to dis¬ 
rupt and oppress business through the curtailment 
of bank loans.” 

Came then a specific assault upon the Alder 
Valley banks. It appeared only as a typical case 
picked at random, but to the banks in Alder Val¬ 
ley it loomed larger than anything that had been 
said heretofore. 

“Take the Alder Valley case.” the Pendulurh 
proclaimed. “Here we find three small state banks 
detached from the Federal Reserve System, in a 
position to dictate what crops the farmers must 
plant, what interest they shall pay on their loans, 
and whether they have the loan at all or not. 
The result in Alder Valley is that this year prac¬ 
tically all of the farmers have been compelled by 
the banks to raise broom corn and will either 
be forced into bankruptcy and thereby lose their 
farms, or the farms themselves will be ruthlessly 
foreclosed and seized by the banks. A bitter 
struggle has been waged there during the past 
two years which is about to culminate now in the 
foreclosure by the bankers of the very farms on 
which the farmers have been compelled to renew 
loans, at exorbitant rates of interest, for years 
past.” 

Esmond, armed with a copy of this latest edi¬ 
tion of the Pendulum, rushed triumphantly into 
the inner office of John Grant, the lawyer. “Now 
We’ll see it happen,” he shouted, interrupting the 




















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157 

conference betweeri John Grant and Earl 
Rogers.” 

And indeed such was the case. Frantic tele¬ 
grams from the Alder Valley bankers to their 
agent, E. G. Owens in New York, brought back 
but one response: 

“The sudden attack by the Eben Lewis paper, 
the Pendulum, on the banking system of the 
country has caused a considerable shake-up in 
banking circles. All are reluctant to expand while 
the attack is being launched. Latest editorial 
localized attack on Alder Valley banks. Capital 
here cannot afford to be identified.” 

The news contained in the telegram could not 
be suppressed. Almost immediately farmers who 
had delivered corn, with the usual confidence in 
the banks, accepting only a slip in return, at the 
sudden assault upon the banks demanded cash. 
Other depositors demanded money from the 
banks and were denied. The banks frantically 
called in loans, but to no avail. Confidence 
shaken, the house of cards fell and the banks 
prepared to close their doors. 

Back in Grant’s office the happy, successful 
trio had met. “And who’s the author of these 
wonderful editorials?” Rogers demanded of Es¬ 
mond. 

“You remember while I was at Mother Mul- 
vaney’s I was writing a book called “The 
Strangle Hold.” Esmond replied. That manu- 










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script was given to Eben Lewis; first because I 
thought he would be instrumental in having it 
published. Nothing was done with it for over 
a year; then Orma Williams came into my life.” 

John Grant and Earl Rogers greeted these 
last words with respectful silence. From the very 
day Esmond had returned to Alder Valley he had 
not mentioned Orma Williams’ name nor per¬ 
mitted others to do so. Mother Mulvaney her¬ 
self had remained discretely silent. The terrible 
battle with the bankers had absorbed all their 
interest and attention. Until now nothing of a 
personal nature had influenced them. 

“They have been lifted bodily from the manu¬ 
script which I left with Eben Lewis,” Esmond 
continued, “and the Pendulum of course has 
taken credit for them, but they have served the 
purpose for which they were intended.” 

Esmond’s prediction was right. The crash 
came, but not until still further editorials, 
scathing denunciations of the Alder Valley 
bankers and the banking system they represented, 
had been printed. Then came the end. Even in 
defeat the bankers dared not divulge the secret 
reason for their effort to grab the farmers’ land. 

Following the failure of the banks, it was a 
simple matter for John Grant and Earl Rogers 
to attend to the details of buying back the Mul¬ 
vaney homestead and liquidating the various 
claims the banks held on the farmers. A grand 



celebration was planned for the following week. 

One of the first to be notified of the sudden 
collapse of the banks in Alder Valley was Orma 
Williams herself. The news reached Orma just 
as the Pendulum had gone to prss with a stirring 
announcment that in the near future the great¬ 
est revelation of all would be published. 




































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CHAPTER XV 
THE REVELATION 


The victory in Alder Valley was complete. 
Mother Mulvaney was once more installed in 
the vine-covered cottage at the head of Alder 
Valley. Although every convenience and facility 
was placed at their disposal by Earl Rogers, again 
basking in the sunshine of prosperity, old 
Mother Mulvaney insisted upon doing the work 
herself—and spent nearly a week scrubbing 
floors, washing windows, and arranging the old 
furniture. 

Again she kept boarders—this time they con¬ 
sisted only of John Grant, Earl Rogers and 
Milton Esmond. For two of them the cup of 
happiness was full to overflowing; but to Milton 
Esmond, the dark shadows of despair were again 
enfolding him. 

The first frost of the year crept into the 
shadows and painted varicolored leaves and 
vines a hoary white even before the blood red 
sun sank below the horizon of distant Oklahoma 
hills. Late autumn leaves fluttered in little piles 
in front of the porch where Mother Mulvaney 
sat watching the lane where Esmond would 
presently come. Twice she spared precious 
moments to visit her kitchen stove, laden with 
steaming pots and kettles. But each time she 


















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161 


hurried back to the porch and renewed her 
vigilance. 

“Sure and it”s him!” she cried at last, as Es¬ 
mond rounded the corner and came slowly 
down the lane. His feet seemed heavy and 
slow; his head was bowed in deep thought so 
that he came even to the porch before he recog¬ 
nized Mothr Mulvaney. With an effort he 
straightened and forced a smile. Tenderly he 
laid a hand on the old lady’s shoulder, gently 
urging her to resume her chair. Then sinking 
heavily to the porch railing beside her he said: 

“Happy now, aren’t you, Mother?” 

“Sure and me ould heart is that full I’m 
wantin’ to be crying for pure joy. Faith and 1 
can see Michael, me dear sojer boy Michael, 
smiling in Heaven and saying, “God bless the 
likes of Milton Esmond.” 

“Yes, Mike is happy now,” Esmond replied. 
Then a pensive mood came over his face. “I 
know his soul can rest in peace now. It’s been 
a long hard struggle, hasn’t it Mother?” 

“But ye don’t seem happy any more, Milton. 
Ever since you got back home again yer that 
sad and forlorn. I’m thinking it’s a funeral 
dance we’re having this night instead of the 
chicken dinner we’ve been talking about these 
many months.” 

“Yes, I know, Mother, I have been depressed 
a little—sort of broken up like. The close shave 



162 


we had—nearly losing out—with me in Europe— 
that’s what did it, I guess.” 

‘‘Sure and it’s not the close shave, and it’s 
nothing else the likes of that.” Mother Mulvaney 
shook her head wisely. “It’s Orma Williams 
that yer eatin’ yer heart out for. I’ve been 
seeing it these many days, and it’s the talk of the 
boys, too; none of them has the spirit to up 
and talk to you about it. Sure an’ that’s what 
I’ve been sitting here waiting for this last hour. 
What ails you boy—and can’t we do something 
after all you’ve been doing for others?” 

“Remember how you wanted somebody to 
talk to when I first came here—two years ago?” 
Milton asked. 

“Sure and it was more than talking I was 
wantin’ to be doin’. I was wantin’ to cry a little 
too.” 

“Well,” Milton confessed, "“that’s just what 
I wane to be doing ‘now. I want to tell you— 
somebody—anybody—I just want to talk about it, 
I guess; sort of relieve myself down here.” Mil- 
ton laid his hand over his heart for a moment 
and moved closer to Mother Mulvaney. 

“We met that night, right after you lef,t,” Mil- 
ton began. “Neither of us said a word about 
Italy—my going—or her returning. She heard 
what you said and she felt terribly guilty over it 
all. Of course I felt worse than that. Almost 
at once we both agreed that the only thing that 











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could save things out here in Alder Valley was to 
cut the money supply from the East going to 
the banks out here. The way to do it was 
obvious. Lewis wanted some more articles on 
bank reform. Orma agreed to Use my old manu¬ 
script, and I came out here.” 

“Then why in Heaven’s name are ye ailin’ so? 
Isn’t everything right with her or with ye?” 

“Well,” Esmond continued, “you notice, 
Mother, that for a week past, each issue of the 
Pendulum has announced that a great revelation 
was going to be made, soon?” 

Mother Mulvaney nodded her head. 

“That’s it. I know what it must be—it’s the 
start of the anti-racial campaign. I know that’s 
what it must be.” Esmond looked away into the 
sunset and for a few moments said nothing. 
Mother Mulvaney sensed something important in 
what he had said and tried desperately to under¬ 
stand what it was. At length she gave up. 

“Sure and what’s this Aunt Racial person got 
to do with it—a meddling relative, I’ll bet.” 

Milton smiled weakly. “No, no, Mother. You 
don’t understand. It’s the issue that we have 
always quarreled over; it is .... ” 

At that precise moment Earl Rogers appeared 
at the entrance of the lane, joyously waving a 
paper at Mother Mulvaney and Esmond. 

“It’s out,” he shouted as he came nearer. It’s 
out—the Pendulum!” 




164 


The color left Esmond’s face and his hand 
trembled visibly. So the campaign had started! 
Orma had gone through with it after all! 
Ignoring the ever exuberant Rogers, Esmond 
arose weakly and made for the door. 

But Rogers was not so easily shaken. “Milton 
here—wait a minute. Listen, it’s about you ! How 
in the heck this ever got into he paper—Lewis’ 
paper—I don’t know. Listen!” 

Then came an unmerciful flaying of Eben Lewis 
himself. Denounced as a hyprocrite, an insanely 
ambitious politician, a ruthless persecutor who 
would do anything to help his personal aims—it 
was all there. Rogers scarcely read through the 
first paragraph when Esmond descended upon 
him with a suddenly awakened frenzy, snatched 
the paper from his hands and made sure that 
what Earl read was really printed there; that it 
was not some cruel, misguided effort at joking. 
Then he read on silently as one entranced: 

“And to Milton Esmond,” the article went on, 
“belongs credit for the great plea for banking 
reform. To Milton Esmond, a Jewish boy who 
dedicated his life to redeem a pledge made on 
the field of battle.” 

Severest of all, the denunciation of Lewis’ pro¬ 
posed anti-racial campaign, interspersed with 
caustic references to the commission in Europe. 

Then at the very end: “Inserted without the 
knowledge of Eben Lewis and on my own re- 





sponsibility.— Orma Williams” 

The shock rendered Esmond speechless, if in¬ 
deed he could have found anything to say. 
Visibly affected he arose and nervously made 
for the door. 

“Hold on,” Rogers interrupted again—there’s 
more yet. Here, Mother, read this!” 

It was Mother Mulvaney’s turn to register sur¬ 
prise as Earl handed her a letter—obviously from 
the name in the corner, bearing news from Orma. 
All three crowded over the single sheet and read 
the lone paragraph: 

“Must seek refuge from the wrath of Eben 
Lewis and have already started for Alder Valley 
and you.” 

“Then she will be here tomorrow,” Rogers 
declared. 

Tomorrow was another autumn day with 
another sunset sending golden rays down the 
leaf-covered lane that led to Mother Mulvaney’s. 
Again Mother Mulvaney sat on the porch watch¬ 
ing and waiting until at length, they came:- 
Milton and Orma. 


THE END 





































































































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